


Growing Up on Baker Street

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Teen Angst, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes years for Little Sophie to understand that her neighbors are not quite 'normal' and a series of life lessons to appreciate the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quiet Mouse

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** So, I've been struggling with various PWPs. When I struggle to write smutt, I end up writing fluffy little things like this, instead. This all occurs some time after _A Secret for Sophie_.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.

Sophie is three years old when Mr Sherlock comes back to Baker Street.   
  
Mummy and Da are in the kitchen together because it’s Tuesday and they always have breakfast together on Tuesday. Sophie is wearing her favorite pirate hoodie. She eats her eggs and toast and wraps her tomatoes in her napkin. With a spoonful of beans.  Two spoonfuls.   
  
Mr John likes tomatoes. Gladstone likes beans.   
  
Sophie runs downstairs. Quiet mouse. Pulls the bench over to unlock the chain on the front door. Quiet mouse. Puts the bench back and sneaks out the door.   
  
Hop down the step. Say hullo to the nice lady walking by. Hop up the other step.   
  
_Knock knock knock... Knock knock knock._  
  
She can’t reach the buzzer.   
  
_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!_  
  
Mrs Hudson opens the door.  She’s smiling. She always smiles at Sophie. “ A bit early to be knocking up, dear. “ Mrs Hudson smells like tea and rosewater and nail varnish.   
  
“ Sorwy, Miz Hutsin.” Sophie apologizes like Mummy taught her. She holds up the full napkin. It drips a bit. “ Wanna pop  t’see Mizter Juhn, peese.”    
  
“ All right, but come right back down.” Mrs Hudson gives her that look that means she doesn’t want Sophie being a bother but thinks Sophie  _‘does a world of good for that boy’_ (Sophie heard Mrs Hudson say that to Mummy once).  “ Would you like to look at the photo albums again?”   Sophie likes the pictures of people in funny clothes.  Mrs. Hudson calls them Bell Bottoms and Hot Pants.  
  
“ Yes, peese. Ta.”   _Please_ and  _Thank you_ like Mummy taught her.  Mrs Hudson goes back into her flat, leaving the door open. Sophie puts her hand on the wall for balance and climbs the stairs, counting the steps.   
  
Sophie opens the door. Quiet mouse. Just wide enough for her to slip through. She’ll surprise Mr John.   
  
Gladstone is in Mr John’s chair. Asleep. Sophie smiles and rushes over to hug him. He is a good doggie and licks her face. Then he licks the napkin. Sophie frowns and lifts it high above her head. Gladstone has to wait his turn. He rolls over on his back and she rubs his belly.   
  
Mr John isn’t in the kitchen. The bathroom is dark.  The Other Door is shut. Like always.   
  
Sophie turns around. Gladstone rubs his head under her hand.  
  
Mr John is on the sofa. Asleep. His back to Sophie. Sophie likes his hair, it’s a pretty colour and all messy from the pillow. He looks cozy under the afghan. Mrs Hudson knitted that afghan.    
  
Sophie frowns. The napkin drips on the rug. Gladstone jumps down to lick it up.   
  
There’s someone else on the sofa with Mr John. Under the afghan. Smooshed between him and the back of the sofa.  There’s a big hand on Mr John’s shoulder, a bit of black sleeve poking out from under the afghan.   
  
Quiet mouse. Sophie walks up to the sofa, near the end with Mr John’s feet and the other person’s feet and she can see that the other person is Mr Sherlock.   
  
Sophie remembers seeing Mr Sherlock in the park. Before Christmas. He was hiding from Mr John because Mr John was mad at him and Sophie was swinging and Mr John was kissing Miss Mary ( she remembers her name now, Mummy and Mrs Hudson talked about her A LOT after Mr John moved back to Baker Street).   
  
Mr Sherlock’s hair is shorter. Really short. Like Da’s. And he looks sorta sick. White and skinny and dark circles under his eyes. Sophie wonders if he got the flu like Mrs Hudson did last week.   He’s holding Mr John and Mr John is holding him, resting his chin on Mr Sherlock’s head.  Holding Mr Sherlock the way Da holds Sophie when she has nightmares. With her ear against his shirt. So she can hear his heart beating in his chest.  Da’s heart says _ love you, love you, love you... _  
  
Sophie wonders if grown-ups listen to their hearts. She wonders what Mr John’s heart is saying to Mr Sherlock right now.  She wants to ask, but Mummy says it’s rude to wake people who are sleeping.   
  
Gladstone pokes his nose at the napkin. Oh, Sophie didn’t bring anything for Mr Sherlock to eat. She digs around in her jeans pocket. There’s part of a lemon biscuit from yesterday’s tea. She thinks Mr Sherlock likes lemon. He said he did, a long time ago.   
  
Sophie puts the napkin on the coffee table, opens it up. The top tomato slice has most of the beans on it, so she pulls it off onto the corner of the napkin. Puts the biccie on the other side.  Now Gladstone can eat his share. And Mr John and Mr Sherlock can eat theirs when they wake up.  
  
It’s a nice little picnic. Sophie nods her head in satisfaction and wipes her messy hands on her hoodie. Gladstone is already eating his beans.  Sophie scratches behind his ear.   
  
She waves good-bye to Gladstone and closes the door on her way out.   
  
Down the stairs. Hop, hop, jump to the bottom. Skip into Mrs Hudson’s flat.   
  
Mrs Hudson is waiting for her. “ Still asleep, is he?” She is pulling great big books off the shelf.   
  
“ Yes, ma’am.” Sophie nods and climbs onto the sofa.   
  
“ Poor dear. Well, best to let him be.” Mrs Hudson looks sad when she pulls down the last photo album. But she’s smiling when she turns back to Sophie. “ We can make scones this afternoon for tea. What kind would you like to make?”   
  
“ Lemon.” Sophie grins back and moves over so Mrs Hudson can sit next to her. She opens the big book in her hands and Sophie begins pointing at the people with funny hair.  Mrs Hudson calls it a Mullet.   
  
**end**


	2. Not Pretending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is four and a half years old when her father dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and her pretend family belong to hato.

Sophie is four and a half years old when her father dies.    
  
She wears her sailor dress from last Easter. And a white ribbon in her hair. Mummy buys her a new dark blue overcoat. She lets Sophie wear Da’s big muffler.    
  
The church is very pretty, but everyone is crying. It’s cold and boring and Sophie doesn’t like all the strange people petting her head and giving her hugs. Mummy holds her very very tightly.    
  
The cemetery is brilliant. Mr John gives Sophie a tussie-mussie of purple and white daisies and sends her off with Mr Sherlock.  Sophie and Mr Sherlock look at the big gravestones while the priest talks about ashes and dirt and Mummy cries on Aunt Rose’s shoulder.  There are stone angels and big marble towers and little houses with lots of names and numbers on them (Mr Sherlock calls them Mausoleums).     
  
Sophie looks back. Mummy is still crying, shaking the lovely little box she brought with her over the hedges. Lots of dust pours out.    
  
Mr Sherlock takes her to Miss Mary’s gravestone. It has a white angel on it. It’s very pretty. Mr Sherlock is quiet and Sophie pulls one, two, three little purple daisies from her tussie-mussie and puts them on the ground.  Sophie remembers the prayers at the church so she says her prayers. “ Now I lay me down to sleep...”    
  
Mr Sherlock waits until she’s done and walks away. Sophie follows.    
  
People are leaving now. They look like big black birds waddling across the grass. Sophie ignores them. She doesn't want any more hugs. No more people talking to her like she's a baby. Or talking about her like she can’t hear them. They’re so high above her head, not even whispering.    
  
_ “ Poor dear. Won’t even get to know him properly.”   
  
“ Hit and run, wasn’t it? Shame. He was a good bloke, right decent. “   
  
“ I don’t know how she’s going to raise that child on her own. “ _   
  
Sophie hates them.     
  
She follows Mr Sherlock. More stone towers. Old plain crosses. Sophie stops at a very large angel with huge wings and looks back again. All the way across the big lawn.  Mr John is talking to Aunt Rose and Mrs Hudson. Mummy is still crying, holding onto the lovely little box. They all nod their heads and then Aunt Rose and Mrs Hudson and Mummy get into the black car that drove them to the cemetery. It drives away.    
  
Mr John walks to Miss Mary’s gravestone. Talks to the white angel on it.  He has a bouquet of white daisies tied with yellow ribbon. Mr John smiles and puts it beside the purple daisies Sophie left.    
  
Sophie turns around. Mr Sherlock is farther ahead, staring across the cemetery, toward the church. Smoking. Yuck. She walks around the big stones. Looking. Touching. Reading. She’s a big girl and she can read better than Gemma even though Gemma is already in school, but it’s not Gemma’s fault because she has ADHD and Mummy says Sophie has to help Gemma to Focus on her reading.    
  
Some of the names are really long. Some of the numbers are really big. Sophie sounds them out as she walks by.    
  
_ Sir Edmund Albert Sherrinford Talbot. 1790- 1857. Loving Husband and Father.    
  
Arthur Charles Dent. 1975- 2005.  We Miss You.    
  
Sherlock Holmes.  _   
  
Sophie stops. It’s a big black gravestone. Still shiny. There are dead flowers in the vase.  She puts the rest of her daisies in it. Sophie frowns. Thinking.    
  
She hears footsteps on the grass. Mr John is behind her. Smiling, but sad. Sophie doesn’t understand why adults smile when they’re sad. “ Thank you for the flowers, Sophie. Purple was Mary’s favorite colour.”  He pets her head. Sophie lets him.    
  
Mr Sherlock comes back. Hands in the pockets of his big black coat. He smells like smoking. Mr John wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t say anything about it.  Mr Sherlock looks at the gravestone and rolls his eyes, stands close to Mr John. Sophie runs her fingers along the letters on the stone. Mr John talks quietly behind her. “ I told Mrs Hudson we’d bring her back home. Let her get Mrs Bingley settled in a bit, you know.”     
  
Talking about her. Like the others. But Sophie isn’t mad.  She wants to know. “ Will Da come back?”   She looks up at them. She wanted to ask Mummy but Mummy cries every time Sophie talks to her.    
  
Mr John is still smiling. “ No, sweetheart.” He puts his hands in his coat pockets. “ I’m sorry, but he’s gone now. Did your mum talk to you about it?”    
  
Sophie nods. “ But you were gone and you came back.” She points at the gravestone and looks at Mr Sherlock. “ Mr John waited and you came back.”  Mr John isn’t smiling anymore. “ If I wait long ‘nough, will Da come back?”  Mummy will stop crying if she knows Da will come back, she just has to wait long enough.  Sophie can wait a really really really long time.    
  
“ Sophie... you see, sweetheart... Sherlock?” Mr John turns to Mr Sherlock.    
  
Mr Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “ Not my area.”  He looks bored.    
  
Mr John gives him a mad look. Then turns back to Sophie. He doesn’t smile. “ Sophie, your father died. Do you know what that means?”  Sophie nods her head. Mummy told her all about it. And Mrs Hudson. And Gemma. And Gemma’s mummy.    
  
And Mr Sherlock told her the day Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan came to talk to Mummy. Told her that Da was dead and they would burn his body considering the massive damage and Mummy would most likely scatter the ashes nearby but keep a small part in a pretty box- Sentiment- and he would find the drunken bastard who killed Da because Mr John was so upset he wouldn’t even Look at Mr Sherlock much less Touch him until Detective Inspector Lestrade made an arrest and Mr Sherlock figured it all out by that afternoon.    
  
And Sophie only cried once.    
  
“ But,” Sophie insists, “ Mr Sherlock died, too. “  She points at the gravestone again. Proof. “ And he came back.” Points at Mr Sherlock.  Frowns at Mr John.  She just wants an answer. Grown ups are always so Difficult (Mummy says that about Sophie all the time).    
  
Mr John sighs a big sigh. Mr Sherlock looks down at her and frowns. “ I was never dead and that grave is empty.  It was a ruse. “ Sophie stares, confused. Sherlock raises his eyebrow again. “ A ploy.”     
  
Sophie wrinkles her nose. Mr John laughs quietly. “ He pretended, Sophie. It wasn’t real.”  He’s smiling again, a little bit. Mr John looks at Mr Sherlock. His smile is still a bit sad.  Then he squats in front of Sophie.  She likes his eyes. Dark dark blue. “ Some bad people wanted to hurt Sherlock and myself and some other people that we cared about very much. He pretended to be dead so the bad people wouldn’t hurt anyone.  He hid so they wouldn’t find him. “   
  
“ And when the bad people went away, Mr Sherlock stopped hiding? “    
  
“ Something like that.” Mr Sherlock is looking at the gravestone. He looks sad, instead of bored.    
  
Mr John is quiet. “ … Something like that, yes.”  He looks sad again. “ Sherlock was pretending. But your father is not, Sophie. He is truly gone and will not be coming back.”  Staring at her. Big hands holding hers. “ Do you understand? ”    
  
Sophie nods. And gives Mr John a hug. He looks like he needs one.    
  
Mr Sherlock coughs. Mr John stands up, holds Sophie's hand.  His hand is warm and rough. Like Da's. " We should head back. Ready?"   
  
Sophie takes a step, then pulls on Mr John's hand. She takes back her tussie -mussie and hands it to Mr Sherlock. " For you."   
  
Mr Sherlock stares at it until Mr John coughs. He takes the flowers and Mr John coughs again." What do you say?"    
  
Sophie knows the answer. " Ta."   
  
Mr John sighs and hangs his head.   
  
Mr Sherlock grins. " Thank you."    
  
They walk back to the church, Mr Sherlock on the other side of Mr John. He tells them the story about Mr Mycroft and the Vanishing Christmas Pudding.    
  
** end **   
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos', and comments!!!


	3. When I Grow Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is seven years old when she decides to become a veterinarian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and her made-up family belong to me. All music and television shows and other media mentioned within belong to their respective creators.

Sophie is seven years old when she decides to become a veterinarian.   
  
Mr John always lets her play Doctor with Gladstone.   
  
When she was really little he would bring out his Stethoscope and let her listen to Gladstone’s heartbeat. He would give her gauze strips to wrap around the dog’s tail and paws, helping her to tie the bow.  Sophie wished he’d let her use plasters, but Mr John said they pulled on Gladstone’s fur, so she put the plasters on herself instead.    
  
But now she’s a big girl and Mr John has shown her how to use the Stethoscope herself. How to warm it in her hand first. Where to press it against Gladstone’s side and chest.  He shows her how to use the Otoscope and Ophthalmoscope. Sophie asks about broken bones and bites from other animals. Mr John shows her the proper way to clean and bandage Gladstone’s imaginary hurts.   
  
Mr Sherlock leaves books on the coffee table, or with Mrs Hudson, or through the post slot for Sophie. Medical texts, Veterinary Science texts, Anatomy texts. Lots of pictures and drawings (Mr John calls them Diagrams).  Sophie can’t get enough of them. It’s all brilliant and creepy at the same time!  
  
She’s looking at one right now. Sitting in the vet’s surgery with Gladstone and Mr John.  Gladstone is sick. Well, actually he’s Extremely Ill and it’s Mr Sherlock’s fault.  He’s in the seat between Sophie and Mr John, his big head on Mr John’s lap. Sophie pets his tail and turns the page in her book.   Then Gladstone whimpers and Sophie puts her book in her rucksack because it’s hard to read and snuggle with the sick dog. And snuggling with Gladstone is more important. “ So, Gladstone ate what?”   
  
“ I’m not entirely sure, Sophie. That’s why we’re here.” Mr John is rubbing Gladstone behind his ear.  He smiles at Sophie, just a bit. Then he looks worried again. And a bit angry. “ Hopefully nothing too hazardous.”   
  
Mr John’s coat pocket vibrates again.  It’s been doing that a lot since they left Baker Street.   
  
Sophie watches Mr John pull the mobile from his pocket and frown at it.  He very slowly types a reply and locks the screen and puts it back in his pocket.  He’s pressing his lips into a tight line. Sophie carefully rubs Gladstone’s belly.  The lady next to her has a black cat in a carrier, hissing and coughing.  Sophie scoots away and puts her rucksack between her and the lady with the hacking cat.    
  
Mr John’s mobile vibrates again.  
  
He jerks it out of his pocket and unlocks the screen. Sophie chews on her lower lip as she watches.  She wonders if she should tell Mr John that he’ll break the screen if he types that hard.  She opens her mouth, but his mobile buzzes while it’s still in his hand, while he’s typing, and that makes Mr John really really brassed off.  Sophie raises both eyebrows, shocked at the sight of Mr John silencing his mobile.  She’s never known anyone to turn off ALL alerts.  That’s like... turning your mobile OFF!  Sophie frowns, but figures Mr John is old and knows lots of stuff so maybe he can still tell when someone is texting him even without an alert.   
  
He shoves it in his pocket and gently pets Gladstone’s head, mumbling. “ That kitchen had better be completely sanitized by the time we get back or I’m going to kill him”  Gladstone ruffs pitifully.  
  
Sophie hasn’t seen Mr John and Mr Sherlock’s kitchen in a couple of weeks. It wasn’t very tidy then. She doesn’t want to ask how it looked this morning before leaving for the vet’s office.  “ Are you and Mr Sherlock having a domestic?”   
  
“ A bit, yes.”   
  
“ Because Mr Sherlock left something Bad out and Gladstone ate it?”   
  
“ Partly. “ Mr John sighs. “ But mostly because he’s texting me every ten bloody seconds whinging about  my not being there to make his tea because  I  am busy fixing the problem  he caused. As usual. ”  He breathes heavily through his nose. Slides his hand under Gladstone’s collar to rub the dog’s thick neck.   
  
“ Oh.” The front pocket of her baggy blue hoodie ( Da’s old uni name in white on the back, it’s her absolute favorite)  begins singing the  _Batman_ theme.   
  
Mr John chuckles. “ Haven’t heard that in a while. “   
  
“ It’s Mr Sherlock.” Sophie frowns. “ It’s his ID alert.”  She quickly sets her phone to vibrate.   
  
“ Oh please play that for him when we get back to the flat.” Mr John grins at her. “ You didn’t set mine to the theme of  _Casualty_ , did you?”   
  
“ No, that’s Mummy’s. She loves that show.” Sophie fumbles the mobile out of her hoodie. She unlocks the screen and reads the new text.  “ It says to turn your mobile back on. Dimmock called with a case. ”  She’s heard about Detective Inspector Dimmock and seen him once, at last year’s Christmas party at 221b.  He was kissing Mummy under the mistletoe.    
  
Mr John puckers his lips like he’s trying to drink through a straw and not doing a very good job of it. “ He can bugger off. No- wait! Don’t type that, Sophie! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. ”    
  
“ ‘salright.” Sophie pulls a face and deletes the reply she was happily typing into her mobile. She’s heard worse on the telly, and from Mummy. She kinda remembers Da saying ‘ bugger all ’ a lot when he was grading student papers at night.  The mobile buzzes in her hand. Mr Sherlock again. Sophie chews on her bottom lip before saying anything. “ He wants me to tell you to stop being a prat and meet him at the crime scene. Here’s the address. “  The lady next to her gives her a weird look. Sophie huddles closer to Gladstone and Mr John, holding the phone for Mr John to see.   
  
“ Well, he can-” Mr John is a bit loud. He seems to realize this and talks quieter, leaning over Gladstone. Talking in her ear. “ Tell him to solve it himself. I’m busy saving our dog!” Sophie jerks her head up, suddenly much more afraid for the sick dog. Mr John shakes his head. “ No, I’m not saying that! Gladstone will be fine, sweetheart. I’m just... very angry with Sherlock right now. ”   He pets her head, gently pulling her long ponytail. It reminds Sophie of how he soothes Gladstone.    
  
“ Right.” Sophie nods and types in Mr John’s response. She sits for a moment, listening to all the little animal sounds and smelling the animal smells. Gladstone is very warm against her side, in her arms. “ And Mr Sherlock is angry because you aren’t with him?”   
  
“ That’s the nice way to say it.”  Mr John huffs, pulling a funny lopsided smile.  
  
“ So if you didn’t have to bring Gladstone to the vet, then you and Mr Sherlock could’ve gone to the crime scene together?”  Sophie tries to work it out in her head. Grown-up problems are hard to understand sometimes. They do very silly things and then don’t say how they really feel and everything gets all mucked up.   
  
“ Basically, yes.”    
  
“ Then I’ll learn all about being a veterinarian so I can fix Gladstone next time and you can stay with Mr Sherlock and stop having rows!”  She grins brightly.  She’s just solved the problem!  
  
“ That really won’t... thank you, sweetheart, very much. ” Mr John has that look on his face like when Mr Sherlock opens the cab door for him or touches the back of his hand when they pass each other in the flat. Like he’s surprised, but happy about being surprised. “ But don’t feel bad if Sherlock and me still have our little domestics. It’s just a part of being...  us , I suppose.” He laughs and tugs her ponytail.   
  
Gladstone’s belly grumbles and he licks Sophie’s hand.   
  
And Sophie’s mobile buzzes. She unlocks it and slowly reads through the text. “ Mr Sherlock says that I’m a clever, in-de-pen-dent girl and to leave me 20 quid for a cab ride home and come save him from Dimmock’s blatant idiocy.”  Another buzz. “ He says ‘it’s so obvious, here look’.”  Another buzz. A pic message this time.  Sophie pulls her brows together. What could Mr Sherlock being sending a pic of from a crime scene?  
  
Before it completely loads, Mr John snatches it from her hand. “ Christ, Sherlock!”  He types much faster this time, holding the mobile close so Sophie can’t see it. “ Sophie, I’m going to delete the picture he sent and the text I am sending back because you absolutely do not need to see either one. Understand?”  He seems even angrier than before. And Frustrated (Mummy says that a lot and it is Sophie’s favorite word now).    
  
“ ‘Kay.” Sophie shrugs and pulls Gladstone completely into her lap so Mr John can use her mobile.  She’s not curious about the picture or the text at all. She trusts Mr John. She trusts Mr Sherlock, as well, but Mrs Hudson has told her to always ask Mr John first before going along with Mr Sherlock’s plans. Something about a Lack of Parental Judgement.   
  
Sophie is definitely certain that she needs to be a veterinarian now. So Mr Sherlock won’t have to send pictures of things that make Mr John angry because he has to delete them.   
  
A nice looking girl in scrubs calls out a name. The lady with the hacking cat grabs the carrier and follows the girl in scrubs.  Sophie remembers that the lady signed in just before Mr John did so they should be next. Oh! She’d gotten distracted and forgotten Mr John’s question. “ _ Superman_ .”  
  
Mr John looks up from her mobile, confused.  She’s not sure if he knows how to use it properly. It’s a bit newer than his own. “ What?”    
  
“ Your ID alert, it’s the theme from  _Superman_ .” Sophie smiles and snuggles up with Gladstone. “ Me and Mummy watched the very first one over holidays. It’s even older than Mummy!” She still can’t believe they even had movies back then! “ And you’re nice and working at the surgery is kinda like Clark Kent working at the Daily Planet and after work you save people and catch the bad guys!”     
  
Mr John is very quiet and for a moment Sophie wonders if she’s said something wrong. Certainly not the first time.   
  
But Mr John finally smiles back and holds out her mobile. “ Thank you again, Sophie.” His eyes are kinda crinkly around the corners.   
  
Sophie takes her mobile back.  Mr John’s hand pets her head then slides down to pet Gladstone’s head.   
  
Sophie’s mobile buzzes. She opens the text- no picture this time- and stares at the words, trying to make them make sense. Well, the message isn’t for her, so maybe Mr John will understand it better. “ It says... ‘ Such a dirty mouth John. Why won’t you talk that way in bed?’ ”    
  
Sophie can’t really identify the noise Mr John makes.   
  
**end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	4. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is eleven years old when she has her first sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie, her made-up friends and family belong to hato.

Sophie is eleven years old when she has her first sleepover.    
  
6:00pm.  Ms Wong drops off Sophie’s best friend, Gemma. Sophie and Gemma bake chocolate chip cookies while Mum takes a shower after her hospital shift.    
  
6:30pm.  Taylor and Aggie from her class are dropped off.  Taylor’s mum, Mrs Hardin, brings them both and stays for a few minutes to chat with Mum about Taylor’s allergies and Aggie’s fear of the dark.  Sophie shows them around the flat and gets them drinks. When Mrs Hardin leaves, Mum orders pizza and Sophie plays the new CD that Aggie brought.  She and Taylor compare nail varnishes. Aggie begins braiding Gemma's hair.   
  
7:00pm.  The pizza arrives. And Mr Marsters drops off Milly.  And Milly has brought... a ferret. Named Martin. Sophie thinks he’s brilliant. Gemma thinks he's extra brilliant. Taylor thinks he smells. Aggie is terrified of him.  Milly keeps Martin tucked in his baby carrier strapped around her front and feeds him crisps.  They eat dinner and talk about the new Harry Potter books.   
  
7:45pm. Sophie hears car doors shutting on the street. She recognizes the loud voices. Something about Mr John’s Territoriality and Mr Sherlock needing to Piss Off. Another row. Or, as Mr John says, Having a Loud Discussion. Mr Sherlock calls it Pointlessly Confirming That I Am Always Right and John is Usually Misinformed. Gemma bounces to the window and waves. She says Mr John waved back but looks like he’s in a proper strop. Sophie listens to the door of 221b slam shut. The yelling continues on the other side of the wall.  Taylor and Aggie look at each other. Sophie quickly pops in a DVD and turns the volume way up.    
  
9:10pm. Mum goes to bed.    
  
9:30pm.  The film ends and Sophie puts in another CD. Milly lets Martin out of his baby carrier to use the disposable litter tray in the loo and scamper around the sitting room. Gemma and Aggie talk about their future career paths. Aggie will read law at King’s College, become a Crown Prosecutor and marry a world famous architect by twenty-six. Gemma is going to drop out in fifth form, bum around Switzerland for two years and become a self educated astrophysicist. Sophie and Taylor paint their nails.    
  
9:42pm.  Sophie has to turn the music up to cover the shouting next door.  She pops into Mum’s room to apologize for the noise. Mum rolls her eyes and laughs and puts in her earplugs.    
  
10:30pm.  The CD ends. It’s quiet. Sophie is very very glad.  She turns the volume down and puts in  _ The Goblet of Fire _ from Mum’s stash of old movies.  Sophie brings out the cookies. Gemma feeds one to Martin.   
  
11:15pm.  There’s a loud bang against the wall. Sophie mutes the telly, confused. Taylor frowns. Aggie hides under her blanket. Milly and Gemma keep watching the film without sound. Another bang. And a big thud. And another. And... Oh god. Moaning.  Mr John and Mr Sherlock must’ve made up. Sophie feels her face heat up. She turns up the volume on the telly and says something about Mr Sherlock and his experiments. Sophie knows Taylor doesn’t believe her.     
  
12:01am.  An extra loud voice from next door. Mr John’s voice. Screaming Mr Sherlock’s name. Sophie refuses to look away from the screen. Taylor makes a disgusted face. Aggie doesn’t notice. Milly and Gemma giggle like mad.  Martin squeaks.    
  
12:27am. There’s a quiet spot in the film and Sophie hears heavy footsteps in the kitchen next door, the taps running in 221b’s bathroom. She hopes they clean up and go to bed and stay there for the rest of the night. Asleep.    
  
12:40am.  The movie ends.  It’s still quiet. Sophie opens up another bag of crisps. They turn on the radio, keeping it quiet ( 221b seems to have settled down for the night and Sophie hates being so loud when she knows Mum is completely knackered), and talk about everything. School, boys, pop stars, family, biscuits, clothes, hairstyles, music, telly, the upcoming summer vacation.    
  
1:04am.  Aggie falls asleep on the couch. Milly nods off in front of the blank telly.    
  
1:31am. Gemma falls asleep with Martin curled on her pillow.   
  
2:20am. Sophie turns out the light. Taylor lies down in front of the couch. Sophie gets under Gemma’s blanket and hugs her own pillow and thinks about Mum taking them all to the London Zoo in the morning...    
  
3:59am.  Sophie wakes a bit. Hears some sounds from next door. Like someone moving around in the other kitchen. A low voice.  Mr Sherlock, she’s certain. At least it isn’t the violin. Sophie closes her eyes again...   
  
4:06am.  The smoke detector is going off. Sophie jumps up. Smoke! Smoke everywhere and Aggie is crying and Taylor is screaming and the alarm is so bloody loud! Sophie coughs and drops back to the floor. She remembers her drills. She can do this! Gemma is still sleeping. Sophie shakes her awake and drags her along the floor, looking for her other friends.  She finds Milly’s hand, and then Taylor who is holding onto Aggie’s nightgown.  Mum runs into the room, yelling for them. The smoke is thick, Sophie can barely see, even crawling on her belly along the cold floor.  She yells back and Mum finds her and grabs her hand and they all crawl/shuffle/run out of the flat, down the stairs and into the street.  It’s drizzling, cold and yuck. Smoke pours out of the doors and windows and chimneys and all the cracks in between.  Mum makes them cross the street to be safer. The other neighbors all run out their front doors and cross the street.    
  
4:08am. Mrs Hudson runs out of the flat in her dressing gown and into the street. She’s yelling for Mr Sherlock and Mr John.  Mum tells Sophie and her friends to Stay Right Where You Are and runs out to grab Mrs Hudson, pulling her across the street to stand with them.  Smoke is still pouring out of their homes. Sophie notices it is a bright blue. And realizes that it smells like burnt licorice.     
  
4:09am.  Mr John runs out of 221 with Gladstone hanging from his arms. He’s got nothing on but his pants. Sophie stares. Gemma giggles.  Mr John calls for Mr Sherlock, obviously looking for him in the street with everyone else. He looks very very scared when he realizes that Mr Sherlock is not outside.  Sophie squeezes Gemma’s hand in hers, hard. Gemma squeezes back. Mr John swears brilliantly, sets Gladstone on the pavement and starts back toward the door to 221.    
  
4:10am. Mr Sherlock walks out of 221 in just pyjama pants and his dressing gown. Mr John nearly knocks him over on the pavement. Sophie can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mr John looks very worried and Mr Sherlock looks annoyed. He takes off his own dressing gown and makes Mr John put it on. Gladstone waddles across the street toward Mrs Hudson. He’s nearly as grey and Mr John now.    
  
4:11am. Lots and lots of sirens.    
  
4:12am. Sophie watches Mr John and Mr Sherlock fighting in front of 221. Aggie is still crying. Taylor is texting.  Milly and Gemma shout over the noise, making bets about what Mr Sherlock blew up. Milly says draperies and body parts. Gemma says secret government biochemical weapon.    
  
4:13am. Milly realizes they’ve left Martin inside. She starts crying.  Sophie hugs her tightly and Mum tells her that Martin is a smart ferret and is probably in a safer spot than they are.    
  
4:14am. Mr Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks back into 221.  Mr John shouts at him, but doesn’t follow.  He crosses the street, pulling the dressing gown closed properly.  He looks embarrassed and seriously mad and very damp and very small in Mr Sherlock’s dressing gown.  Mrs Hudson meets him on the curb. Sophie tries very hard to hear what he’s telling her.  She catches “ _ experiment” ,  “perfectly harmless” _ , and  _ “stupid fucking sod” _ _._   Mr John comes up to Mum and apologizes, apologizes, apologizes. Gladstone plops down at his feet.    
  
4:15am. The fire trucks pull up to the curb and block the view.    
  
4:19am. A firefighter walks Mr Sherlock around the fire truck. He is obviously arguing with her. The firefighter shakes her head and shoves Mr Sherlock across the street. Sophie easily reads the  ‘ _NO_ ’ on her lips. Mr Sherlock huffs in the cold, wet air and stands next to Mr John.  He has something dangling from his hand.   It’s Martin, hanging by his scruff.  Mr Sherlock holds him out to Milly. He wrinkles his nose and says something about finding Martin in 221b’s kitchen.  _ “ Clever enough to escape through an air vent. Not clever enough to choose the  _ right _ air vent. ” _   Milly squeals and squeezes Martin and thanks Mr Sherlock over and over. Mr Sherlock rolls his eyes and huddles close to Mr John.  Mr John opens the dressing gown and tries to wrap them both in it.  Sophie huddles close to Gemma and Mum and Mrs Hudson do their best to shelter all the girls from the cold.    
  
4:25am.  Mrs Hardin shows up.  Sophie hears her screaming over everything else going on. She realizes Taylor must’ve been texting her mum to pick up her and Aggie.  Sophie frowns. She’s certain they’ll be allowed back into the flat in just a little bit. Taylor breaks away, dragging Aggie behind her. Mrs Hardin is wearing her great coat over her dressing gown. The fluffy slippers on her feet are wet and shabby.   She grabs Taylor and Aggie in a sloppy hug and bends down to check them over, Sophie supposes.     
  
4:26am.  Mum steps away. Sophie can see the anxious look on her face before she turns toward Mrs Hardin, walking over to them. Sophie can hear the pain in Mum’s voice, her apologies rushing out as she wraps her arms around her body. And Sophie hears and sees as Mrs Hardin cuts Mum off, practically snarling about what a horrible, negligent parent Mum is and how she knew she couldn’t trust her precious little lamb and her little playmate to anyone who associates with such a dangerous, psychotic, fraud and his middle-aged rent boy!     
  
4:28am. Sophie sees red. She can feel her face heating up in the cold rain. Her face is going to bloody burst into flame she is so cheesed off!  Sophie glances at Mr John and Mr Sherlock. They are both looking at Mum and Mrs Hardin.  Mr Sherlock is frowning, but he looks more confused than irritated. Mr John looks painfully uncomfortable and angry though he’s holding it in and seems as though he’s about to step in to do some mediating.    
  
4:29am. Mum tells Mrs Hardin to shut the hell up. Sophie’s eyes are so wide they hurt. Mum tells Mrs Hardin that Mr John and Mr Sherlock are wonderful, amazing, brilliant gentlemen and that she’d much rather deal with a few false fire alarms and questionable smells than live next door to a stuck up manky bitch like her!    
  
4:30am. Mrs Hardin slaps Mum across the face. Sophie hears Mrs Hudson gasp behind her, hears Mr John swear under his breath.  Sophie is so shocked she can’t move, can’t yell, can’t do anything but watch. She can feel Gemma’s hands squeezing her arm extra hard. Taylor and Aggie seem just as stunned.  Mum doesn’t hit her back (and Sophie wants her to hit back, wants her to punch that stupid bleach blond, too much Chanel No5 wearing, snotty old heifer for daring to say that shite!) only straightens up, apologizes to Taylor and Aggie and tells Mrs Hardin to clear off.     
  
4:32am. Mrs Hardin pulls Taylor and Aggie along the pavement, Sophie assumes she parked down the street.  Mum turns and comes back to their little knot. The left side of her face is bright red.  Mrs Hudson puts her arm around Mum and pulls her close. Sophie hugs her from the front. Gemma and Milly (clutching a sopping wet Martin) crowd in at the sides.  Sophie knows the adults are exchanging Looks that she probably wouldn’t be able to properly understand even if she was looking up. She decides she doesn’t care right now.  She only cares about how brilliant Mum is and how much she hates Mrs Hardin and Taylor and Aggie by association.    
  
4:35am. Mr Sherlock coughs and says he’s going to find whoever is in charge and get the scene cleared so he can get back to his experiments and John can go back to sleep or they can possibly shag again before the other two options and everyone can stop standing around in the street gawking like idiots.     
  
Taylor and Aggie avoid Sophie for the rest of the school year.   
  
And Sophie never has another sleepover.    
  
** end. **


	5. Tap Tap Tap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is not quite four years old when she meets Mr Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie is a figment of my own imagination. 
> 
> **A/N** : Out of order, I know, lol. I didn't plan this one, it just sorta popped into my head and I couldn't get rid of it.

Sophie isn’t quite four years old when she meets Mr Mycroft.    
  
She’s under the chair in the entry of 221. Sobbing into her new stuffed Piglet.     
  
Hiding.    
  
Because she’d gone upstairs to show Mr John and Mr Sherlock the Piglet that Da had brought her from Paris because Mrs Hudson was out shopping so she went upstairs instead but Mr John wasn’t home either and Mr Sherlock was in the kitchen with his Microscope and Sophie knows she can’t talk to Mr Sherlock when he’s Working so she waited to see if Mr John would come back and she saw that Mr Sherlock had left his violin in his chair and it was sooooooo pretty and beautiful and Sophie wasn’t gonna break it or anything she just touched one of the shiny strings and Mr Sherlock got really angry and yelled at her and snatched it away and it was scary so she ran downstairs to hide!    
  
The front door opens and Sophie tries to make herself smaller.  Holds Piglet so tightly.    
  
She can’t see who it is.  Just their feet.     
  
But it’s not Mr John.    
  
And it’s not Mrs Hudson.   
  
A bloke’s shoes. Really nice ones. Nicer than the ones Da wears to graduation each year.    
  
And an umbrella.    
  
A man with an umbrella.    
  
And then a girl’s shoes. Pretty black ones with really high heels. Like Mummy’s Date Night shoes.     
  
Sophie sniffs and wipes her nose on her sleeve.    
  
The high heels stay near the front door. Sophie can hear tapping, like someone texting on a phone. Really fast.    
  
The umbrella taps toward the stairs.    
  
Sophie holds her breath. Makes herself very very small.    
  
The umbrella stops.  “ Did he merely threaten to turn you into a frog? Or order you from the premises?”   Bloke’s voice. A bit like Mr Sherlock. But not.    
  
He’s talking to her, she’s pretty sure.  The high heels don’t say anything.     
  
Sophie thinks for a moment. Last time Mr Sherlock said he’d turn her into a frog was last week when she was asking him what he was cooking in the kettle because it smelled like cabbage and nail varnish and he said it was a potion to turn nosy little girls into frogs and Mr John had laughed when Sophie said to prove it and Mr Sherlock just looked mad.    
  
She wipes her nose again.  Whispers. “To g-get ou-out.”     
  
The umbrella taps two times. “ Hmmmm.  Worse than I suspected.”    
  
Sophie wipes her eyes on Piglet’s ear. It’s soft.    
  
The umbrella sighs and swings onto the bottom step. “ Well, next time he’s in such a difficult mood remind him that I have numerous photos of a certain young pirate captain in nothing but an eyepatch and his pants. And I have John’s email address. “     
  
The high heels laugh.    
  
Sophie wonders what kind of pirate runs around in his pants.    
  
The umbrella taps up the stairs.    
  
** end **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	6. Losing It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is fourteen years old the first time she brings a boyfriend home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and her paramour are purely my imagination. 
> 
> **A/N:** There is a reason I don’t write case fic- Sherlock’s deductions are just completely beyond me. Massive, massive headache.

Sophie is fourteen years old the first time she brings a boyfriend home.   
  
Robbie insists on walking her home after dinner and Sophie can’t refuse that beautiful smile.   
  
Or those strong fingers stroking through her hair.   
  
He walks beside her, keeping her close. Her small hand is completely swallowed by his bigger one.  Sophie loves the feeling. A warm, moist palm and calloused fingers.  A big, solid presence at her side that just radiates heat in the chilly night air.   
  
Sophie is chewing on her lower lip as they near her front door. Nervous. For a variety of reasons.   
  
One of the biggest reasons exits 221 in a swirl of designer scarf and old fashioned coat.  “ Sophia! How delightful to see you!”   
  
Sophie glances to the side. Her door is six feet away.  She slips a hand into the pocket of her long coat, key clutched tightly in her fingers.     
  
Mr Sherlock is walking toward them, all dark and looming and fake smile and crazy glint in his eyes.   
  
They’ll never make it.   
  
She doesn’t have time to prepare Robbie.   
  
Sherlock is upon them. “ This is the new one? About three months together, correct? “ He reaches out, offering his hand. “ I don’t recall hearing anything about the last one in at least six months and Sophia has never been one for a swift rebound.”   
  
“ Uh, yes sir. Yes.”  Robbie chuckles, eyes wide in surprise. “ Three months yesterday.”   
  
Sophie watches with a sense of growing terror as he happily- though with some confusion- shakes the long hand. “ Uh, Robbie, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Our neighbor. Mr Sherlock, this is Ro-”   
  
“ Robert Flynn, yes. I overheard your mother and Mrs Hudson nattering on about him yesterday.” Mr Sherlock’s pale eyes are skimming every inch of Robbie, nostrils flaring. Sucking in every detail. Deducing.   
  
Sophie tries to nonchalantly pull Robbie away. “ Yes, well we-”   
  
“ Fifteen years old, average academic career but a celebrated goalkeeper for your school’s football team according to Mrs Bingley. Already being scouted by the finest university athletic departments.”   Mr Sherlock is still holding Robbie’s hand in a firm grasp and Sophie can tell her boyfriend is getting a bit weirded out.  She knows Mr Sherlock is aware of this and knows that he’s enjoying making Robbie uncomfortable.  He continues. “ Your father owns a lucrative dry cleaning business- your jacket and trousers are a bit sophisticated for someone your age, also a bit dated,  but immaculate. Obviously an abandoned suit several years old. However, your stay-at-home-mother prefers to launder the rest of your wardrobe herself and was so overcome by maternal emotion at your new social life that she pressed your shirt collar a bit lopsided and put a crease in the tail. ”     
  
Sophie leans to the side, desperately searching for any sign of Mr John. Mr John will save them. He’s the only one who can.   
  
Robbie seems genuinely astounded, despite the creepy stalker vibe emanating in waves from the older man. “ That’s brilliant! “ He grins at Sophie. “ That was brilliant!”  She loves that he’s so simple to please.   
  
“ Ahaha, yeah... Great.” Sophie shrugs and gives a half smile and turns her attention to Mr Sherlock. “ Where’s Mr John?”  She lets him hear the heavily implied,  _ Why are you without your handler? _   
  
Mr Sherlock ignores her. He does finally let go of Robbie’s hand. “ He’ll be along. So, this is the ‘ _big night_ ’ . “  He actually makes the quotation marks in the air with his fingers. Sophie rolls her eyes. “ Three months together, countless group dates, double dates and other instances of harmless social interaction within the public eye. And now dinner at Angelo’s, a little slap and tickle under the table, an unfortunate early  _ la petite mort _ \- you handled it very well, Robert, despite your unduly tight pants- and now back to the flat where you have a comfortable ninety-seven minutes before your mother returns from work. Just enough time to be deflowered and have a cuppa before young Robert here catches a cab back home to regale his hamster with the night’s events!”   Mr Sherlock looks positively gleeful.   
  
Oh god. Sophie can feel her ears beginning to burn. She doesn’t care how Mr Sherlock knows as long as he doesn’t say anything to anyone else. She pushes her shoulder against Robbie, attempting to move him around Mr Sherlock and toward her stoop. “ Mr John!”   
  
Robbie is a solid wall of stunned stammering. “ H-how did- how did you-”   
  
“ Oh, this is the fun part!”  Mr Sherlock is in The Zone, as Mum would say. Long fingers begin pointing out the miniscule details, head cocked to the side.  “ You have a few tiny hairs on the very edge of your shirt sleeve, but not the sleeve of your jacket. Too short to be a dog or a cat, so it’s a rodent of some sort.  Hamster is statistically more likely than a rat or rabbit, especially as it is small enough to be held in one hand and attempt to snuggle under your cuff as you changed its food right before putting on your jacket to leave for the evening.  You went to the cinema first, wasted over an hour of your life watching Disney’s newest saccharine soaked morality tale involving talking mammals. I overheard you discussing the cuteness factor of the main character as you approached and when you reached for your flat key a moment ago your ticket stub fell out of your pocket. You really should be more careful about that Sophia.”   
  
The burning sensation is slowly creeping across her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie can see that Robbie’s eyebrows are practically hidden under his long blond fringe. His cheeks are just as pink as hers feel.   
  
“ So, you both decided that tonight would be ‘ _ the night _ ’, “  Mr Sherlock performs the air quotes again, “ working around Robert’s practice schedule and Sophia’s menstrual cycle and Mrs Bingley’s late shift for the week. Angelo’s is close by, nice little romantic spot that Sophia has frequented with her mother for years, and within walking distance of her flat, saving both time and money.  You had your usual Melanzane alla Parmigiana because you never order anything else and there’s a crumb still caught in the fibers of your jumper. Robert here had Angelo’s newest recipe, fettucine in a vodka cream sauce that he dripped onto his shirt front- twice- and a delicately seasoned chicken breast, a piece of which is stuck between his upper second bicuspid and first molar. And despite Robert’s valiant efforts with the travel-sized Axe body spray and your own subtle after dinner mint, you both still reek of garlic and basil. “     
  
Mr Sherlock takes nanosecond breath and plunges on before Sophie can call for help. “ Angelo gave you the free cannoli that he always gifts you at the end of the meal. You both shared it. You have the tiniest bit of cream on the corner of your mouth and Robert has a spot on his tie. Bit of a sloppy eater, don’t you think? Maybe nervous about your plans for the night? Or how your toes kept finding his ankle under the table. Innocent foreplay, of course. Until his hand found its way above your knee. Some of his vodka sauce is on the hem of your skirt, most likely transferred from his jacket sleeve. You startled, as a sweet untarnished young lady would, upsetting your wine glass of grape juice- Angelo wouldn’t dare serve alcohol to minors but he understands the importance of keeping up appearances- but the lightning quick reflexes of our favorite goalie saved it from spilling more than a few drops onto your charm bracelet. A birthday gift from John and Mrs Hudson, your favorite piece of jewelry, there’s a juice stain on the photo in the locket charm, broken hinge, I’m afraid you’ll have to replace it.   
  
Sophie is not breathing.   
  
“ _‘But how did you know about the premature ejaculation?’_  Simple enough, even John could have figured it out. First, you’re a fifteen year old human male. Not exactly known for restraint or stamina though usually gifted with the tremendous advantage of a shortened refractory period. Naturally when an attractive young person begins fondling your calf with her stockinged toes you get excited. Perfectly normal. A touch of her knee is glorious and then Oops! there goes the grape juice and your moment but by now you can barely sit still and are hardly able to even stand, protecting your modesty with a hastily buttoned jacket on your way to the loo where you enter the single stall, open button and zip and thrust your hand down your pants to relieve that agonizing pressure in order to avoid any more embarrassing mishaps for a while. There is a distinctive mark across the top of your wrist where the waistband rubbed against the skin. Either a very tight waistband or an extended period of friction. I doubt you lingered much in the loo, so tight pants it is. You sorted yourself out, came back to the table and paid the bill like a proper gentleman.”   
  
Sophie is pretty certain Robbie is not breathing. His brows have not lowered. His hand is tight on hers and she gives it a slight jerk when she sees his mouth open.  _ Don’t encourage him! _ she needs him to understand, but of course he doesn’t. “ But how did you know about what we planned?!”  Robbie looks scared out of his wits.   
  
Mr Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “ Sophia is rather an open book. Transparent, blatant, predictable. Much like John. You’ve left your hair down instead of torturing it into one of those ghastly ponytails that does nothing for your face. New jumper, new skirt- lovely color by the way, one of the few things you own that doesn’t clash with your hair color- old tights and new shoes. Your neckline is very demure, your ballet flats border on kitsch. Nothing untoward there. But your skirt is above the knee and loose. Clearly meant to advertise easy access. To counter that you’ve worn tights, not so easy after all, a bit of work involved to get to your recently purchased matching knickers and bra set. Dove grey, I believe, with lace and a bow from what I observed in your laundry this morning.“     
  
Sophie doesn’t stare at the thin finger rapidly pointing at her person, but keeps her gaze locked onto the pale eyes picking her apart. The shock and humiliation is quickly giving way to  indignation. To outright crackling fury.   
  
“ The signs are soooo obvious. You plan on celebrating your three month dating anniversary by giving your virginity to Robbie who at least appears appreciative if not entirely experienced in the matter.”  Mr Sherlock seems not to have noticed the death-glare shooting from her eyes.   
  
Or Mr John coming out of 221 who has stopped just behind him to stare in wide eyed shock. “ Wha?”   
  
Sophie can only glare.   
  
Robbie is doing a wonderful impression of a goldfish out of water.   
  
Mr Sherlock opens his mouth, likely to repeat his deductions in their entirety for his partner.   
  
Mr John cuts him off. “ No. No and no. I don’t want to hear it.”  He grabs Mr Sherlock and hauls him toward the curb. He nails the young adults with a serious gaze. “ Do you have protection?” Using his Give Me the Truth or I Will Know face.   
  
Sophie and Robbie nod enthusiastically.   
  
“ Alright, I didn’t hear anything and I don’t want to know.” Mr John flags down a cab, firm hold on the back of Mr Sherlock’s collar.   
  
Sophie is still glaring as he shoves Mr Sherlock into the backseat of the taxi. Before Mr John can shut the door, she hears Mr Sherlock calling out. “ Lubrication is key!”   
  
The cab pulls away and it takes Sophie a full ten minutes to get Robbie into her flat.   
  
The next day she can’t look Mr John in the eye.    
  
And she destroys Mr Sherlock’s sock index in revenge.   
  
** end **


	7. Neutralize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is two days from sixteen years old the second time she brings a boyfriend home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING!WARNING!WARNING!!! This story involves an underage female getting off with an adult male. This story also involves another adult male manipulating and discussing/deducing the sexuality and insecurities of an underage female in order to be deliberately cruel (possibly to be kind in the long run, but mostly for his own agenda). Mentions of childhood trauma, pseudo-incest, masturbation, drug use, underage drinking, underage sex, cursing and all the unpleasant realities of life.**
> 
> All that being said, it does have a happy ending. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and her accompanying OCs are my own whimsy.  
>  **Inspired by:** _Angel_ by Massive Attack.  
>  **A/N:** I should be studying.

Sophie is two days from sixteen years old the second time she brings a boyfriend home.  
  
She’s a bit tipsy. Not drunk. Not drunk. Just tipsy. And giggly.  
  
She tries to put the key into the door lock, misses again. Because it’s dark. Not because she’s had a couple of pints. And because Nick’s hands are crawling under her shirt, again. Sophie giggles and snorts and gives up on the key for a moment. Mum’s working the night shift, she won’t be home for hours yet. Sophie turns round and lets the taller man push her against the door. Fumbling, groping, sloppy snogging. He tastes like cigarettes and weed and Fuller’s. Smells like cigarettes and weed and cheap aftershave.  
  
Part of her knows this is really stupid. For a variety of reasons. Standing on the stoop in plain sight with a bloke’s hand on her tit at arse o’ clock in the morning are only a few. And not even the more important ones. But she doesn’t want to think about that. Or about Gemma, hours ago,  standing on the pavement, begging her not to leave with Nick who’d happened to be on his way to a party in Brixton when he ran into them as they left the cinema.  Sophie had seen him a few times, hanging out with mutual friends in places her mum will never find out about.    
  
He is not a nice boy. Exactly what she wants.  
  
Four hours, three bitters and a Tube ride later, Sophie is grinning and moaning quietly, a hand gripped in the back of Nick’s t-shirt, the other buried in shaggy blonde hair.  He grinds his crotch against her hip. Hard line of his covered erection pressing into her belly. Rough denim on her bared skin. Nick has her t-shirt riding high, his hand kneading over the cup of her bra. He mumbles dirty little nothings into her ear. She scrapes her cheek across his stubble. Gasps. Grins. Arches.  
  
“ _SOPHIA EININ BINGLEY!!!_ ”  
  
Sophie nearly chokes. She jerks so hard her head hits the door behind her.  
  
Mr John. Shouting her full name. Not good.  
  
Hard, fast steps on the pavement. Then Nick is hauled off by the back of his collar and the humid night air washes over her skin before her shirt falls back into place. Mr John practically throws Nick toward Mr Sherlock and a young man beside him that Sophie instantly recognizes as Met though she doesn’t know this one by name and oh shit there is an unmarked car at the curb and the constable is obviously dropping them off after finishing up a case and why hadn’t she just gotten inside the flat when she had the chance?!  
  
Mr John is on the stoop now. All angry concern and soft buttoned-up shirt. “ Sophie, are you okay?  What did he do?  What were you thinking? “  He can’t seem to decide between worry and blame. Sophie looks over his shoulder, watching the constable herd Nick to the front of the police car.    
  
“ Nicolas Westmore. How dull.” Mr Sherlock sounds irritated.” Shouldn’t you be across town selling cheaply cut heroin to the uni students? “    
  
The constable raises a brow and sighs, pulling nitrile gloves from his pocket. “ Alright, hands on the bonnet, spread your legs.”  
  
Mr John blocks her view. “ Sophie, are you listening to me? I don’t know what’s gotten into you!” Frustrated now. Hands on his hips. “ You barely passed your last form and that’s a posh school on your mum’s salary, you’ve been fighting with her and she says you’ve been sneaking out at all hours to God only knows where to do God only knows what and-”  
  
“ Wasting your time, Holmes.”  She can hear Nick, hear the smirk in his voice. Tunes out Mr John’s lecturing. “ You won’t find anything on me.”  
  
“ Oh, I believe it won’t be necessary to find anything, but it amuses me to disrupt your evening.” Mr Sherlock tilts his head toward Sophie. “ Are you aware of the current legal age of consent?  I can assure you it is much younger than your own twenty-two years.“  
  
“ Looks eighteen to me.” Still smirking. Sophie makes a face, recalling her blatant lie that she was two years over legal age.  She knew Nick hadn’t believed her, but it hadn’t mattered because he’d still been willing and she isn’t a God damn child!  
  
Mr Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ Boring. Constable Lestrade, our young neighbor there is fifteen years old. Feel free to do the maths and take him away. I’m sure her mother will be happy to bring her by the Yard  tomorrow morning to file charges. Let’s go, John.”  
  
“- you can’t keep doing this, Sophie! Your mum is worried sick about you and Mrs Hudson was in such a state last time you ran off-” Mr John continues his rant.  
  
Sophie tries to get past him. “ I’m fine! Leave me alone!” Shoving. Grinding her teeth and looking around Mr John. “ Let him go! Nick!” Everything’s a blur of noise and motion. Her head aches. Dizzy. Angry. Determined. “ Bugger off!”  
  
“ Sophie, just listen to me-” Mr John. Calm, smooth. Holding her by the elbows, keeping her in place.  
  
“ John, it’s been handled. Let’s go.” Mr Sherlock. Bored. Annoyed by the inconvenience.  
  
Mr John doesn’t let go of her, but turns his head. “ Sherlock! We can’t just leave her like this!”  
  
“ Fine.” Mr Sherlock huffs and shoots a glare. “ Sophia, go to your room and don’t leave until your mother returns.” Pale gaze flicking back to John, brows raised questioningly.    
  
“ Fuck you, Holmes!” It’s out of her mouth before the sentence fully forms in her mind. Sophie struggles again, pushing against the restraining hands. Just wanting to get away. To escape.  
  
“ Sherlock! Sophie!”  Mr John’s frustrated voice. A calming breath through his nose, out his mouth.  “ Look, just stay with us tonight. I’ll call your mum and tomorrow we can sort this out, yeah?”  
  
Mr Sherlock snorts and turns toward 221. “ Typical adolescent pleas for attention. Soon she’ll be listening to emo-pop and piercing various body parts. I weep for the future.”  
  
And Sophie snaps. Startling red and jagged black through the drunken haze and she is pushing that Big Red Button. “ Shut up, you fucking _FREAK_!”  
  
And for a split second, time freezes.  
  
Utter silence.  
  
And then a rush of movement, sound, smell, touch. All at once.  
  
Fingers tight around her upper arm. Mr John right in her face. Heavy breaths through his nose, loud in the quiet, hot on her face. Scent of sweat and woodsmoke and cheap aftershave.  Dark eyes narrowed. Other hand clenching at his side. Whole frame tensed with barely concealed anger.  
  
Sophie’s breath stutters in her chest. She’s never been frightened of Mr John before. Never. And even now, she knows he won’t hurt her. He won’t strike out or curse. But his expression screams fury and restraint. Eyes blazing. As though he can physically burn that hateful word hanging in the air between them. And incinerate her in the process for daring to say it.  
  
In a brief moment of perfect clarity amidst the mental chaos, Sophie realizes she’s taller than him by about an inch. Just enough to have to look down to meet his eyes.  
  
But she still feels small under that hard glare. Helpless and trapped and heart beating so fast...  
  
Then the moment is gone and Mr Sherlock’s quiet voice breaks the silence. “ John.” Just over Mr John’s shoulder.  Mr Sherlock’s not looking at him, but at her.  Blank stare, cool and collected. “ Assist Lestrade with getting Westmore settled.”    
  
Mr John doesn’t respond, at first. Then he drops his hand from her arm. Jerks his head around, not looking at Mr Sherlock as he walks stiffly past him to the police car.  
  
Sophie remains plastered to the door. Now staring up at Mr Sherlock who is staring back at her in a much too familiar manner.  
  
Eyes scanning methodically. Nostrils flaring. Slight tilt of his chin and quirk of his mouth.  
  
Deducing. Cutting through her with scalpel-like precision.  
  
Sophie shakes her head. She doesn’t want this. Not right now. She can’t handle this right now.  
  
Mr Sherlock’s expression slides into a smug grin. “ Ah, my dearest Electra, how predictable.” He leans into her space, speaking low and fast and the smell of his cologne makes her sick. “ When did it start? Your last birthday, when he presented you with that tacky little locket you never take off? Or the week after, when you barged into our flat and discovered John taking delightful advantage of me? “ Sophie’s breath hitches and Mr Sherlock smirks, barely more than a rumble and shadow at her side.“ That was it. The moment you began to see him as a sexual creature and not just a warm, cuddly jumper to cry on. “  
  
Sophie watches Mr John stop beside Constable Lestrade, facing away. She wants him to look at her. To save her from this.  
  
“ So you began popping in at every opportunity. Bringing up the post, help with your studies, sharing a tray of freshly baked scones. Lip gloss and eye kohl and a bit too much of that sickly sweet pong on your wrists. Just wanting him to notice you for the woman you think you are, not the little girl he still sees you as. And you were so certain of the possibility. He’s made no secret of being bisexual and you even have that rather unfortunate shade of red hair he obviously prefers on women. So you’ve been overtly physical- embraces, shoulder rubs, dancing- then run off to your room to work the sense memories into your masturbatory fantasies. Technically it's not incest, but close enough to add a tantalizing layer of guilt and rebellion to the entire affair. ”  
  
Sophie feels her face burning. Mr John’s profile in the light of the street lamp, arms crossed over his chest.  She needs him to look at her.  
  
“ When the Nice-Girl-Next-Door didn’t work, you tried the opposite. Logical enough. Between your mother, Mrs Turner and Mrs Hudson each account of your escalating disobedience came to John’s attention because we all know how you dote on him and he on you. So naturally he felt it to be his duty to attempt a bit of guidance and discipline on behalf of your dead father. And you soaked up that attention like a stroppy little sponge, didn’t you? Loved it when _Mr_ John put his foot down and reprimanded you like a mischievous puppy. And I was content to let it go on as long as it wasn’t an inconvenience.”  
  
Sophie swallows against the tightening in her throat. Mr John watches as Constable Lestrade puts Nick into cuffs.  
  
“ That is no longer the case.”  
  
She opens her mouth to call out, but her voice is gone. She stares at the back of Mr John’s head.  
  
“ I personally don’t give a damn about this self destructive path you’ve set upon. If you want to ruin your life, be a burden upon your mother and society in general, then you have my blessing.”  
  
Sophie can’t breathe. Shaking. Nick says something, wide grin. Mr John balls up his fist and slams it into Nick’s midsection.  Nick doubles over in pain. Constable Lestrade looks the other way.  
  
“ But John will not be a part of it. He is not going to be submitted to the disappointment and guilt of visiting you in New Hall or exhausting his limited resources to keep you employed when no one will hire an emotionally unstable ex-con or eventually identifying your body on the slab, because that is exactly where you are headed. You will be quietly taken far away, arrangements made for your mother to follow, and sanctions put into place to keep you there for the rest of your natural life and all contact with John will cease. He will eventually forget you. You will never hear from him again. Because I will not allow John to suffer for your utter stupidity and childish delusions. ”  
  
Sophie can feel her lower lip trembling. She bites the inside to keep it still. Mr John moves to the back of the police car and stares down Baker Street, breathing heavily.  
  
“ Because he will never be yours, Sophia. John is _mine_!”  Mr Sherlock’s breath stirring her hair, hissing into her ear. Sharp and hateful. Coldly confident and dangerously possessive.  
  
Then he’s gone, dark shadow leaving the stoop and walking toward 221. Sophie’s cold now, shivering in the aftermath, cool air brushing past her heated face.  Arms wrapping around herself as she sags back against the door and refuses to cry.  
  
And Mr John is looking at her now. Pained expression. Regret, guilt, lingering anger and everything Mr Sherlock said and Sophie never wants to see on Mr John’s careworn face.  
  
He heaves a deep sigh. Expression softening. Taking a step toward her. Broad hand extended. “ Sophie, please...” Desperate pleading. An offer of comfort. Of forgiveness.  
  
Sophie feels the sob swelling up in her throat. She takes a step away from the door and Mr John gives a gentle smile.  
  
She turns. Fumbles the key into the lock. Slams the door behind her without looking back. Runs upstairs, gasping through the tears.  
  


* * *

  
Sophie spends the next two years earning numerous scholastic achievements, volunteering at the animal shelter, cementing her lifelong friendship with Gemma and graduating top of her class.  
  
She doesn’t speak to Mr John for the first seven months.  
  
She doesn’t speak to Mr Sherlock until graduation.  
  
“ I hate you being right all the time.” _Thank you. You’re still an insufferable bastard._  
  
“ I quite enjoy it.” _You’re welcome. You’re still an annoying child._  
  
They shake hands and never mention it again.

* * *

**end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Story Notes**  
>  \- Sophie’s middle name comes from the traditional Irish lullaby _Einini_. So, her uni professor father gave her the Greek _Sophia_ , and her Irish mother gave her _Einin_. _Einin_ means ‘little bird’ (according to babynamesofireland.com) and is pronounced _a+neen_.  
>  \- And yes, I took liberties with Greg Lestrade’s children and made one of them follow in his father’s footsteps.  
> \- HM New Hall is a closed prison for women and female youth offenders.  
> \- The _Electra Complex_ is the female counterpart to the _Oedipus Complex_ (Jung, Freud). I don't know if Sherlock would subscribe to those particular theories, but he would certainly use Sophie's pop-culture familiarity with the term to his advantage. 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	8. And Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is five years old when she meets her role model.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie is purely my imagination. 
> 
> **A/N:** Another one out of order. Mainly, I wanted something funny after the last chapter.

Sophie is five years old when she meets her role model.   
  
“ What’s your name?”  
  
“ Anthea.”  
  
Sophie thinks Ms Anthea is brilliant. For lots of reasons.   
  
She’s grown up. She’s pretty. She wears posh clothes. She has her own mobile. She rides around in a posh car and doesn’t pay attention to Mr Mycroft most times and still gets paid loads of money to be a Sycophant ( Mr Sherlock said that and Sophie told Mummy that’s what she wants to be when she grows up but Mummy said she has plenty of time to decide on a Career).   
  
But mostly, Sophie thinks Ms Anthea is brilliant because of her name.   
  
All of them.  
  
After Anthea it was Ellen. Then Catherine, Emily, Charlotte, Diana, Fergie, Kate, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Guinevere, Isolde, Marian, Delilah, Bathsheba, Jezebel...  
  
It takes Sophie a long time before she understands that Ms Anthea is not lying to her. And she’s not playing a trick on her. And she doesn’t have Amnesia so that she has to give herself a new name because she can’t remember her real name (Mr John had looked at her funny when she asked about people who forgot things and laughed a whole bunch when she asked if Ms Anthea had it).   
  
Ms Anthea changes her name because she can.  
  
And Sophie thinks that’s brilliant.   
  
So Sophie begins changing her name.   
  
She starts with family names: Moira, Rose, Nessa. Then her friends’ names: Gemma, Sarinder, Milly. Then names in her books: Patil, Cindy-Lou, Primrose.  And names from stories Da used to tell her: Artemis, Portia, Etaine.   
  
Mummy, Mrs Turner and Mrs Hudson think it’s Darling.  
  
Mr John, Mr Sherlock and Mr Mycroft think it’s Worrying.  
  
Ms Anthea never says what she thinks about it.   
  
“ I’m Galadriel, Lady of Lorien.”  
  
“ … John let you borrow his Lord of the Rings trilogy, did he?”  
  
“ Yes, ma’am.”   
  
But she smiles each time Sophie tells her a new one.   
  
**end**  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	9. Dog Bits, PAVA, and Shock Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is nineteen years old the first and last time she helps with a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Most of the characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and anyone else not canon-ish is my own whim.
> 
>  **A/N:** Because the next one is sad, so I wanted a laugh first :)

Sophie is nineteen years old the first and last time she helps with a case.  
  
She’s huddled on one end of the couch in Detective Inspector Donovan’s office.  
  
Mr Sherlock is sprawled on the other end.  
  
Mr John is slouched in the middle.  
  
Detective Inspector Donovan is outside the closed door,  arms folded over her chest, talking with Detective Inspector MacDonald and Constable Lestrade (Sophie knows she’s seen him before but can’t remember where)  from SCD7.  She looks very, very cross.    
  
Sophie swallows and buries further into her shock blankets. All three of them. Mr John didn’t need his and draped it over top of her own. Mr Sherlock didn’t want his and threw it over her head.  Being soaked through and chilled to the bone, she accepted them without complaint. Sophie pulls her bare feet up underneath the fleecy material and wishes she could disappear. Or at least go home.    
  
“ Sophie, I am so, so sorry we involved you in this.” Mr John wrings his hands together between his knees. He looks completely knackered. And his left temple is turning a painful shade of fresh bruise.  
  
“ Don’t apologize to _her_!” Mr Sherlock protests from his side of the couch, waving his hands around. His voice is slightly muffled under a wet flannel. “ She should apologize to _me_ for _this_!” He pulls the flannel away and tries to glare at Sophie through eyes that are nearly swollen shut, his skin a blotchy, angry red.  
  
Sophie glares right back. “ It’s not like I knew it was you in that horrid coverall and cap! What was I supposed to do when I’d been told there’s a murderer on the loose and some creepy bloke dressed like a janitor attacks me in a dark corridor and you were supposedly on the opposite side of the college?!”  She’d nearly emptied the canister of incapacitant spray in Mr Sherlock’s face before she recognized him.  
  
“ In his defense, he didn’t actually attack you. He came looking for you the moment he realized that the suspects’ were using an anatomy lab and not a chemistry lab to cook up the drugs.”  Mr John smooths her head under the blanket.    
  
Sophie snorts. “ No he didn’t. He figured it out and dashed off before you could even remind him that he sent me to the anatomy wing to get some dog stomachs.”  She knows them. Knows better than to think Mr Sherlock came barreling around that corner looking for her.  Knows that she was somewhere in the Top Ten of his concerns, but only because Mr John would’ve been very upset with him if anything had happened.  
  
Mr John sighs and clasps his hands together again. “ Now, Sophie... “ And she knows he’s pausing because she’s right and he doesn’t want to outright lie to her.” We were both worried.”  
  
“ I was worried you would muck up the whole investigation and Oh Look! You did!” The indignant whine is amazingly clear despite the flannel and chemical burns on Mr Sherlock’s face.  
  
Sophie is about to let loose a blistering string of curses about how the only thing that got mucked up was her plans for the evening. But Mr John steps in before she can draw a deep enough breath. “ Sherlock! She did nothing of the sort! She managed to get your sorry arse into an emergency shower-”  
  
“ After assaulting me!”  
  
“ -that just so happened to be in the lab you were looking for-”  
  
“ And then tried to drown me!”  
  
“ - and distracted the suspects inside-”  
  
“ By stuttering and stammering incoherently through her anesthetic protocols!”  
  
“-long enough for me to get there-”  
  
“ Where you promptly slipped and fell in all the water from the shower and nearly got yourself concussed!”  
  
Sophie shivers at the reminder. She’d backed Mr Sherlock against the wall of the emergency shower in a stupid attempt to shield him from the gun being pointed at them by a former classmate.  Watched through a curtain of water as Mr John came flying in, hydroplaning, falling,  head colliding with the hard floor.

What happened after is mostly a blurred mess of shouting and clumsy struggles.  It’s a bloody miracle they’re all still alive.  
  
“ I’m fine. It all sorted itself out in the end and we are all fine.” Mr John glances out the office window. Makes a face at Detective Inspector MacDonald behind Detective Inspector Donovan’s back. “ We’re all fine. That’s what’s important.”    
  
He loops an arm across Sophie's shoulders and pulls her into his side. She is happy to curl up there, close her eyes, and pretend the last five hours never happened.    
  
There’s a subtle movement and Sophie cracks her eyes open to see Mr John searching out Mr Sherlock’s hand. Covering it with his own. Folding his broad fingers around slender ones.  
  
Mr Sherlock noticeably squeezes back. Then ruins the moment. “ Where did you even get PAVA spray? “  
  
Sophie grits her teeth. Mr John tenses guiltily beside her.  
  
“ Of course. John.” Mr Sherlock releases a very irritated, put-upon sigh. “ What is this ridiculous compulsion of yours to possess and distribute illegal firearms? ”  
  
Sophie and Mr John start giggling. And can’t stop.  
  
Mr Sherlock insults their maturity level. And grins under the flannel.  
  
 **end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Story Notes**
> 
> \- SCD7 is part of the Met that deals with various things, including drug crimes (when they partner with SOCA).  
> \- PAVA is an incapacitant spray (synthetic pepper spray) used in the UK. It falls under the Firearms Act and is illegal for civilians to carry.  
> \- Sophie attends the Royal Veterinary College (RVC), hence the badly researched animal/medical stuff. 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos', and comments!!!


	10. For Every Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is twenty-one years old when Mrs Hudson passes away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and her accompanying OCs are my own whims.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Minor Character Death and Grief.
> 
>  **A/N:** Because I've attended too many funerals this year.

Sophie is twenty-one years old when Mrs Hudson passes away.  
  
The funeral is simple, but elegant. The reception much the same. Mum pours coffee by the liter. Mr John accepts the condolences with a gracious warmth. Mr Sherlock hovers around Mr John.  Sophie spends most of the reception sniffling on  the landing of 221b with Constable Lestrade who tells her funny stories about Dog Support and the Mounted Branch and gently reminds her that his name is Daniel when he’s not working and replaces her soppy handkerchief with his own clean one.  
  
A day after services and Sophie is helping Mum and Mr John sort through the flat. Organizing the things bequeathed. Separating the things going to the charity shop. Bagging up the things going to the tip.  
  
221a still smells like Mrs Hudson. Tea and rosewater. Clove and evergreen for the holidays.  
  
Mum and Mr John are going through the many photo albums and framed pictures. Quietly discussing practicalities. Chuckling over shared memories.  
  
Sophie is taping up her own box of treasures.  
  
A small china bird. A bit of framed needlework. A pearl necklace. All listed in the will. Mum had added two perfectly wrapped gifts from under the perfectly trimmed tabletop tree. And then Mr John carefully added books and DVDs, a knowing smile on his careworn face. The complete works of James Alfred Wight and BBC’s _All Things Great and Smal_ l.    
  
A large chunk of her childhood. Neatly wedged into a cardboard box.  
  
It’s the end of the roll. Sophie pulls a face and tosses the empty tube into the bin, eyes searching the clutter for more tape. Considering the stack of already packed boxes surrounding the couch she’s surprised they’ve made it this far without running out.  
  
Well, there should be more in the kitchen. In the second drawer on the left of the sink where Mrs Hudson always keeps...kept it.  
  
Sophie chews on the inside of her cheek and stands, padding quietly through the flat.  
  
The vintage curtain is swaying in the draft, beads clicking softly. Sophie’s always loved this tacky relic of a groovier era. She reaches out, ready to part the strings, to sweep them aside.  But her fingers barely touch the polished wooden beads. Sophie draws short just one step outside the doorway. Startled into immobility.  
  
Mr Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table.  
  
He’d been leaving just as she and Mum arrived with packing supplies early this morning. Given them the barest nod before disappearing out the front door. Mr John had mentioned something about Bart’s, but Sophie had not missed Mum’s understanding  pat-on-the-arm and Mr John’s resigned sigh.  
  
Sophie hadn’t heard him return. She doesn’t think the others noticed either.    
  
He’s sitting in the chair facing the door, on the other side of  the small table. Sophie can make out the bulk of his dark overcoat slumped in the chair.  Hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Staring at the table top.  
  
Just... staring.  
  
Which, in and of itself, is not unusual. Sophie has seen Mr Sherlock stare into space a hundred various ways. Calculating. Pensive. Meditative. Bored.  
  
But this. This is different.  
  
He seems... uncertain. Pinched brows and a tightness around his mouth . Sorrow and fear and something close to confusion in his distant gaze.  
  
He looks so _lost_.  
  
And...  
  
And Sophie thinks back to helping with the dishes after the reception yesterday. Of drying a mug and looking up to catch Mr John’s profile limned in the bright sunlight. Hair almost entirely grey now. The wrinkles about his eyes and mouth more pronounced. Old and tired and sad and small with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, hands hidden in the soap bubbles.  
  
And Sophie had remembered then, how only last month she had thought the same things about Mrs Hudson, while helping her sort through her Christmas decorations.  
  
Sophie had thought they looked so fragile. Diminished.  
  
Vulnerable.  
  
Like Mr Sherlock. Whose hair is just beginning to streak silver and the lines around his eyes are deepening.  
  
Sophie swallows. Pulls her hand away from the curtain and silently turns toward the flat door. Wipes her eyes on her sleeve.  
  
She can find a new roll of tape next door.  
  
 **end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	11. Full Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is twenty-two years old when she discovers that full disclosure is her best weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and accompanying entourage are my own whimsy. 
> 
> **Inspired by:** _I Don't Know Why_ from Shake Sauvage: French Film Soundtracks.

Sophie is twenty-two years old when she discovers that full disclosure is her best weapon.   
  
She’s misplaced her key. And no one is answering the buzzer. A quick text to Mum and Sophie is slowly climbing the stairs to 221b to borrow her key.   
  
She assumes Mum was popping over to exchange New Year’s Day pleasantries with the neighbors and if Sophie’s lucky then she can get in and out without much notice.   
  
But she’s never had much luck where her neighbors are concerned.   
  
Sophie enters the open kitchen door of 221b and squints against the bright lights. Mum and Ms Molly are sitting at the kitchen table, gossiping about the new interns at Bart’s.  They both give her wide-eyed looks of surprised amusement. Sophie apologizes for her ragged appearance and promises to immediately sort herself out and be right back over to visit.  Ms Molly giggles and Mum grins as she hands over the key.   
  
Sophie purposefully does not look into the other rooms. If Ms Molly is here, then most likely Mr Greg (so hard to remember it’s not Chief Superintendent Lestrade anymore, since his retirement) is with her. And quite possibly any number of their blended family.    
  
And if Mr Greg is here, then he is most likely with Mr John watching footie or something on the telly.   
  
And if Mr John is watching telly, then Mr Sherlock is most likely bored.  
  
And if Mr Sherlock is bored, then Sophie is definitely in trouble.   
  
So Sophie leaves out the kitchen door, intending to go back to her flat, shower, make herself presentable and return for this impromptu celebration of the new year.   
  
She gets one foot on the top stair before Mr Sherlock’s voice booms from the front room. “ Sophia Bingley! Approach!”   
  
Lord, Mr Sherlock is in one of _those_ moods.   
  
Sophie pivots and trudges into the sitting room, just over the threshold.  She’s too knackered to be embarrassed or surprised to find that yes, Mr Greg is sitting on the sofa with Mr John. And Constable Daniel-When-He’s-Not-Working Lestrade is in the neighboring chair. And Ms Molly’s and Mr Greg’s seventeen-year-old son, Matthew, is sitting on the floor at the coffee table. All watching the match on the widescreen telly (a Christmas present from the Lestrade Family to Mr John) set upon the breakfast table.   
  
Mr Sherlock is sprawled sideways in his armchair. Dressing gown, jimjams, one slipper hanging from his foot.  One elegant hand raised to bring her farther into the room.   
  
“ Her Majesty beckons-ow!”  Matthew gets a kick from his father for his smartarse mutterings. Sophie has always liked Matthew.   
  
Mr Sherlock ignores the comment and stares at her for a full two seconds before his gazes sharpens in that oh so familiar manner.  A smirk curves one side of his mouth.   
  
Just as Mr Sherlock raises a pointing finger and opens his mouth for what is undoubtedly a scathing series of deductions meant to temporarily disperse his boredom and mortify her in front of company, Sophie heaves a great sigh and preemptively throws all her cards on the table.   
  
“ Yes, Sherlock, I misplaced my key,  otherwise I’d be in my flat sleeping off what was obviously a very eventful night out. As you can plainly see,  I am wearing the same kit you saw me in yesterday. Had take-away from Angelo’s with Mum at St Bart’s before her shift ended- she’s probably already told you-  before heading out to Club Matmos- you can tell by the stamp on the back of my hand and the glitter in my hair, and yes I’m aware that neither the color nor the style are very flattering- with Gemma, Milly, Douglas and Arthur- not that I expect you to remember my friends. Met up with the lot from school and drank way too many Cosmopolitans and smoked way too many of Douglas’ fags- I know my clothes reek of both and I’m displaying the last traces of my normal hangover, namely exhaustion and light sensitivity.   
  
Danced all night, which is why I’m carrying my new shoes instead of wearing them since they rubbed my heels bloody- I’m sure you saw the stains on my stockings.  Shortly after ringing in the new year me and Gemma went to hers for tea and paracetamol because that’s our usual post-club routine. And even I can still smell Gemma’s perfume mixed with sweat and sex oozing out of my every pore, so naturally you’re aware that we then crawled into her bed and licked and fingered each other into multi-orgasmic bliss for several shagtastic hours because sometimes we do that when neither of us has anything else on and Gemma’s in London. And of course you know we have done since before I started uni and Gemma left for the Netherlands, about which you can’t possibly have anything to say, Sherlock, since you’ve been shagging your best friend for the past twenty years.”   
  
In the silence that follows her outburst, Sophie takes in a replenishing breath and glances around the room.   
  
Mum and Ms Molly are standing in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room, both holding in giggles.   
  
Daniel-When-He’s-Not-Working, Mr Greg and Mr John have their legs awkwardly crossed and are staring at her with varying degrees of shock and inappropriate fantasizing.   
  
Matthew has both hands pressed into his lap hidden behind the coffee table and is staring at her with a funny mix of discomfort and amazement.  
  
Mr Sherlock is pouting, his parade effectively rained upon. “ For your information, I wasn’t going to say any of that. I was... going to tell you to bring biscuits when you return”   
  
Sophie rolls her eyes, disbelieving. “Right. Well, I’m off.”  She turns on heel without another look and heads down the stairs.   
  
She doesn’t even stop to wonder who Mr Greg is talking to when she hears the blatant laughter in his voice, “ Got your work cut out for you there, lad.” 

* * *

**end**   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	12. Sneak a Peek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is six years old the first time she sees all of the Lestrades together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and company are my own whims.

Sophie is six years old the first time she sees all of the Lestrades together.   
  
It’s not the first time the hospital’s called Mummy to work on her day off. But usually she leaves Sophie with Mrs Turner or Mrs Hudson or Mr John or calls Cousin Nessa to mind her.  
  
Not this time. Mrs Turner is visiting her brother in America and Mrs Hudson is on holiday in Ireland with her sister and Mr John and Mr Sherlock didn’t come home last night and Cousin Nessa is Revising (Mummy says that’s when students stay up late and guzzle energy drinks and make themselves barking mad).   
  
So Mummy brought Sophie to St Bartholomew’s.  She tells Sophie to stay in the break room while Mummy is down the hall at the nurses’ station.   
  
Sophie squeezes into the corner behind a big potted palm, beside the vending machines, so no one can see her unless they come up to buy a drink or bag of crisps. Mummy let her pack Piglet, her Ipod, her e-reader and a whole bag of Hobknobs in her rucksack. Sophie has been listening to Brahms and reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  It’s really Interesting and she still thinks Professor Snape is a prat no matter what the last book said.   
  
Someone walks into the breakroom. It’s Ms Molly, bringing her coffee mug to wash up at the sink. Sophie likes Ms Molly. She’s very pretty and very nice and always talks to Sophie at the Christmas parties at Mr John and Mr Sherlock’s flat.  Sophie knows she works downstairs with the dead people.  She wanted to visit Ms Molly once, but Mr John said the Morgue was no place for a little girl. And Mr Sherlock said she’d Contaminate all his Evidence. And Mummy said Absolutely Not.   
  
Ms Molly puts her mug (with fluffy kittens all over it) in the cupboard when it’s washed and turns around and jumps a bit. She seems surprised and then really happy when she runs across the room.  
  
Sophie leans forward to see around the corner of the vending machine, and turns her music down.  There are more people in the breakroom now.   
  
Detective Inspector Lestrade is here, holding a baby.  He has two big boys with him.  Ms Molly hugs Detective Inspector Lestrade and kisses the baby.  The baby laughs and Detective Inspector Lestrade is smiling really big and he kisses Ms Molly.   
  
Sophie knows the baby is Ms Molly’s and Detective Inspector Lestrade’s baby.  His name is Matthew. Mummy told her about him when he was born, just a bit after Sophie turned five years old. She said he was born exactly nine months after Ms Molly and Detective Inspector Lestrade got married. Mr John had laughed when she said that.  He’s a cute baby.  He mostly looks like Ms Molly, but his hair is really dark, like Mr Sherlock’s. Not red like Ms Molly’s or grey like Detective Inspector Lestrade’s. Weird.   
  
The two boys don’t look anything like Ms Molly, but that’s because she’s not their Mummy. They have another Mummy, she was a long time before Detective Inspector Lestrade met Ms Molly.   
  
The oldest boy is a teenager. Sophie can tell because he’s nearly as tall as his Da and he’s not paying attention to anyone because he’s texting on his phone.  The teenagers on the telly are always texting.  He looks a lot like Detective Inspector Lestrade, except his hair is dark brown like Matthew’s.  His Da calls him Simon. Simon kinda smiles at Ms Molly when she hugs him, but mostly he just leans against a table and texts.   
  
The other boy is younger than Simon, but still a lot older than Sophie. She thinks he’s at least twelve.  Ms Molly calls him Danny Boy and gives him a big hug. Danny Boy gives her a big hug back and smiles just as much as his Da. He looks a lot like his Da, but his hair is red. Really bright red. Brighter than Sophie’s.  Maybe his Mummy has hair like that. Danny Boy is carrying the nappy bag and he’s holding Ms Molly’s hand, pulling her toward the door. He says something about going to Angelo’s for lunch.   
  
Detective Inspector Lestrade gives Matthew to Ms Molly and puts his arm around her as they leave. Danny Boy is right behind them. Simon is slower because he’s still texting, but he follows them out.   
  
Sophie watches the empty room for a moment, then turns her music back up.   
  
She hopes she and Mummy can leave soon.   
  
And maybe Mummy will take her to Angelo’s.

* * *

  
**end**   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


	13. Something Borrowed, Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is twenty-six years old when she marries Sergeant Daniel Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Sir ACD. This particular version belongs to Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. Little Sophie and company are my own delusions. 
> 
> **Inspired by:** Pachelbel’s _Canon and Gigue in D Minor_ and  verawang.com.

Sophie is twenty-six years old when she marries Sergeant Daniel Lestrade.   
  
It’s a simple ceremony.  Sophie wears Mum’s second-hand Vera Wang from her wedding to Da. Daniel wears his police dress uniform.  Mum walks her down the aisle. Mr Greg winks at her from Daniel’s side. Gemma winks at her from the other side.  Mr John makes a toast that brings everyone to tears. Mr Sherlock eats the entire top tier of the wedding cake before it’s been cut.   
  
Hours later, they are in their room in the pretty little bed & breakfast in Florence, Italy on their honeymoon. A week away from the vet’s surgery, Scotland Yard, nosy family and friends.   
  
Daniel is on the balcony, watching the people passing in the street below. Not quite successfully hiding his laughter behind a glass of wine.  
  
Sophie is sitting on the heirloom quilt covered bed,  phone pressed tightly to her ear. Shaking hand clutching a fold of papers. Sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
Mr John picks up on the third ring. _“Sophie, sweetheart! Thought you and Daniel’d be testing the bedsprings by now... Sophie? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”_   
  
She hiccups and swallows. “Sh-Sher-Sh-erlooooock!”   
  
There is a brief pause before Mr John’s voice hisses just beyond the phone. _“Sherlock! What did you do now?!”_   
  
Sophie hangs onto the mobile with one hand and tries not to crush the papers in the other as she waits.  She can hear Daniel humming quietly behind her. She can hear Mr John swearing and a minor scuffle on the other end of the line.  Somewhere outside children are singing the latest American pop song.    
  
Then Mr Sherlock’s voice, sounding greatly imposed upon. _“We are in the middle of a case, Sophia Lestrade nee Bingley, so either speak properly or I will return the phone to John who is fluent in blubbing.”_   
  
She sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “Sher-l-lock, y-you... you...” She waves the papers around as though she can make him see them by the crinkling sound alone.  Knowing him, he probably can.   
  
_“I’m going to assume you’re referring to your wedding gift that I specifically told you not to open until you’d returned to London._ ” Mr Sherlock is tapping his fingers, loudly.  An enclosed space. Probably a cab, on their way to the morgue or the Yard.   
  
Sophie nods, sniffling against her arm. True, he’d thrust the envelope into her hand with the whispered instructions mere moments before she left the dressing room to walk down the aisle. Sophie, in turn, had shoved it into her purse and forgotten about it. Until stumbling across it while searching for her mobile to take a photo.  She’d opened it without remembering and stared in shock before breaking down and ringing Mr John.   
  
She takes in another deep breath and forces out two coherent words. “But how?”    
  
 _“ Ridiculously simple.”_ Mr Sherlock shifts around, soft rustle of clothing. _“ You know, of course, that Mrs Turner’s son has no intentions of ever returning to London. He has been looking for potential buyers for the property.  He found one several weeks ago and was in the process of selling the building to a realtor who wishes to ‘flip’ the property and sell it to an American businessman who in turn wants it to house his London mistress and her small, annoying purse-dog.”_  The last word is so heavy with disdain that Mr Sherlock’s entire voice drops into a vehement snarl before he continues in his low drawl. _“Obviously he meant to evict you all, most likely giving notice at the end of this month.”_  
  
Sophie’s heart freezes in her chest. This is all news to her and Mum has never been good at hiding things so Sophie knows she wasn’t aware of it either.  The landlord was going to throw them all out.  Daniel had let the lease go on his tiny flat nearly a year ago; no point in traveling back and forth. Mr and Mrs Vardaan, the elderly couple in the ground-floor flat, only moved in a month ago. Mum only moved into the basement flat a week before that.  And that arse, Turner, was going to sell the place right out from under them. “H-how did you-”   
  
Mr Sherlock huffs on the other end of the line. Irritated by having to explain something so obvious. _“Your family and the current tenants are aggravating as it is. I won’t stand to have some witless chav and her toy Cockapoo anywhere within the vicinity of Baker Street.  Mycroft delayed the initial paperwork with a deluge of legal technicalities. I called upon Mr Turner to inform him that I was aware of his affair with his employer’s daughter. And Mr Turner offered a very generous discount on his asking price.”_   
  
Mr John is muttering vehemently, just in the background. _“Christ, Sherlock. I can’t believe you fucking -”_  
  
Mr Sherlock raises his voice over his partner’s curses. _“If you’re not interested then feel free to pass it on to your mother. The rents will provide extra income when she retires in a few years. She can live quite comfortably while you and Sergeant Lestrade fritter away your earnings on some overpriced cottage in Notting Hill.”_  The eye-roll is blatant even a thousand miles away.  
  
Sophie swallows, breath still shuddering, eyes and nose still streaming profusely. “But why **this**?”  
  
A pause. _“John said to get you something practical and you already have a fondue pot.”_   
  
_“Sherlock.”_ Mr John’s warning tone. Softened by exasperated affection.   
  
Sophie brushes her thumb across her neighbor’s signature at the bottom of the page. Across the blank line below it, waiting for her own signature in the presence of a notary to transfer ownership of the entire house to her.  The sobbing dissolves into hiccups, tears slowing at last. “ Why?”    
  
Hesitation, then a sigh. Mr Sherlock speaks quietly and Sophie’s mind presents her with the image of that awkward tilt of his head, the nervous fidgit of his fingers at his side.   _“It is your home, Sophia Lestrade. For as long as you want it.”_   
  
Covering her face with the hand holding the documents, a new bout of crying shakes Sophie’s skinny frame.  She barely even notices the mattress dipping behind her until Daniel’s strong arms are suddenly wrapped around her body. Warm front pressed against her back, scratchy cheek against her neck as he kisses her shoulder. And he’s still chuckling softly at her messy emotional display. Sophie turns her face toward his, wiping the corner of one eye against his temple.  Gasping. Swallowing. “…thhhhank y-”  
  
 _“As I said before, we’re a bit busy tracking down a document that could plunge us all into World War III, so tell that husband of yours to keep you better occupied because I don’t want to hear from you until you’ve returned. Unless there’s a dead body involved. Ciao.”_   
  
Daniel laughs and squeezes her tightly.   
  
Over the phone, sound of a car door opening, closing. A few heavy breaths before Mr John speaks up, his tone still a bit agitated, but almost amused. Definitely resigned. _“Sweetheart, just enjoy your honeymoon.”_   
  
“ ‘Kay,”  Sophie squeaks in reply. She pulls the papers away from her face, frowning at the smeared ink.   
  
_“And just for the record, I suggested he buy you two a nice slow cooker, not a fondue pot.”_   
  
Sophie laughs, a short burst through the sniffles. “R-right.” She wipes her face on Daniel’s shoulder. Bites the inside of her lip to keep her voice steady. “ Thank you.” Because she has to say it to someone.   
  
That knowing snort through his nose. _“You’re welcome, Sophie. Now, we’ll - Christ he’s already arguing with the witness!  Be careful, have fun!”_   
  
“You, too. Cheers.” Sophie ends the call and drops the mobile onto the thick carpet. She carefully folds the wrinkled, streaked papers and fits them back into the envelope, then drops it beside the phone.   
  
She’ll deal with it when they get back to London. When her days are once again filled with sick animals, Mum’s constant hospital gossip, and late nights waiting up for Daniel. When Mr Sherlock texts her for horse hooves and chinchilla poo. When Mr John texts apologies and invites for tea.   
  
But for right now, she’s going to respect her elders’ wishes and shag the hell outta her new husband.

* * *

**end**   
  
  



	14. Texting from Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Mr John who texts just to say hullo, Mr Sherlock never texts Sophie without a very good reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Most characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC. Little Sophie and company are my own delusions.

**Age 6**  
  
15:45  
Bored - _SH_  
  
15:49  
Want to watch Harry Potter? - _Sophia_  
  
15:50  
Tedious. - _SH_  
  
16:00  
Dr Who? - _Sophia_  
  
16:03  
Kerb in ten minutes. - _SH_  
  
16:05  
What for? - _Sophia_  
  
16:05  
Experiment in park. - _SH_  
  
16:06  
What for? - _Sophia_  
  
16:08  
To see how many adults will intervene when a child is being abducted by a stranger. Make sure your screams are convincing. - _SH_  
  
16:09  
Brilliant!!! :D  - _Sophia_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 7**  
  
10:14  
Is John pursing his lips or covering his face with his hand?  - _SH_  
  
10:20  
He is swearing a lot and called you a git.  - _Sophia_   
  
!0:21  
Clostridium perfringens and Staphylococcus. Tell John. - _SH_  
  
10:23  
Did you tell him? - _SH_  
  
10:27  
Mum says I can’t say swear words.  - _Sophia_  
  
10:36  
It’s what Gladstone ingested, idiot child. - _SH_  
  
10:52  
Call her that again and see what happens. - _JW/Sophia_  
  
10:54  
Threatening texts from a child’s mobile, tsk tsk. - _SH_  
  
11:13   
Mr John says he used your debit to pay the vet. - _Sophia_  
  
11:15  
Mr John says no Fun Pants Times tonight. - _Sophia_  
  
11:16  
Damn. - _SH_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 12**  
  
08:11  
mr john home? - _Soph#1Companion_  
  
08:12  
Hospital. -SH  
  
08:14  
barts? case?- _Soph#1Companion_  
  
08:14  
A&E. Yes. - _SH_  
  
08:15   
Cease your panic attack. Only stitches. He’s fine. - _SH_  
  
08:21  
k  - _Soph#1Companion_  
  
08:23  
He says he’ll save you the hospital bracelet if you promise not to worry. - _SH_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 13**  
  
16:33  
Bring milk.  - _SH_  
  
16:34  
nope. - _SEB_  
  
16:34  
What did John tell you. - _SH_  
  
16:35  
sed no enabling. - _SEB_  
  
16:52  
He’s in a real strop, lol. Ta! - _JW_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 15**  
  
23:49  
We can hear you. It’s upsetting John. Keep it down. - _SH_  
  
23:51  
bugger off - _Soph_  
  
23:53  
‘Micah’ has incredible stamina. Too bad his technique is shit or you would have orgasmed by now and we could all go back to sleep. - _SH_  
  
23:57  
fuck you - _Soph_  
  
23:58  
John’s taken care of that, cheers. - _SH_  
  


* * *

 **Age 16**  
  
14:27  
Talk to John. - _SH_

* * *

  
 **Age 19**  
  
20:15  
What are you doing tonight? - _SH_  
  
20:19  
Hen do with mates. - _Sophie <3_  
  
20:21  
Dull. I need to get into RVC. - _SH_  
  
20:23  
No. I’ve got plans. - _Sophie <3_  
  
20:24  
John needs to get into RVC. _-SH_  
  
20:30  
Bastard. Down in 5. - _Sophie <3_

* * *

  
**Age 20**  
  
04:25  
Bring milk. - _SH_  
  
04:29  
sleeepng - _SophieB_

* * *

  
 **Age 21**  
  
11:21  
Where’s John? - _SH_  
  
11:24  
Is he with you? - _SH_  
  
11:37  
I was talking to him and then he was gone. - _SH_  
  
11:43  
Is he still angry I forgot your birthday? I did purchase a ridiculous vintage shirt signed by that David Tennant fellow that you’re always on about for the party tonight. - _SH_  
  
11:49  
Disregard previous. He went to get milk. - _SH_  
  
11:51  
Pretend to be surprised when you arrive at Angelo’s tonight. And when you open my gift. - _SH_  
  
12:16  
Christ, Sherlock,  I was in the middle of a dissection lecture! - _SophieB_  
  
12:20  
Bring me any bits you have left over. - _SH_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 22**  
  
17:56  
Do you have a copy of Mrs Hudson’s mince pie recipe? - _SH_  
  
18:23  
Made a dozen for tea today. Want me to bring some over? - _SophieB_  
 _See attachment_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 25**  
  
20:31  
You complete wanker. You knew what he was going to do. - _Sophie_  
  
20:33  
I assume you replied positively. - _SH_  
  
20:34  
Did you help him plan it?- _Sophie_  
  
20:34   
Of course you did. You’ve always preferred older men. - _SH_  
  
20:39  
Shut up. Did John know? - _Sophie_  
  
20:43  
That you prefer older men? He had an inkling, yes... - _SH_  
  
20:45  
Ignore him sweetheart. Congratulations! Daniel's a lucky man!- _JW_  
  
20:53  
Tell Sgt Lestrade this whole engagement thing had better not interfere with the current case. - _SH_

* * *

  
  
 **Age 27**  
  
22:35  
Are you two done yet? - _SH_  
  
22:45  
Nope. Not drunk enough. - _SophieL_  
  
23:50  
John is a bad influence on you. - _SH_  
  
01:16  
You can’t kidnap John and get pissed every time you and Daniel have a row. - _SH_  
  
01:22  
looov uso mch u know - _SophieL_  
  
01:25  
You’re drunk enough now. Bring John home. - _SH_  
  
01:29  
that was john. he got my mobile. apparently he’s more upset with daniel than i am. - _SophieL_  
  
01:34  
he’s already threatened daniel with a sound thumping - _SophieL_  
  
01:42  
And Sgt Lestrade has texted me in a futile attempt to explain the situation. - _SH_  
  
01:43   
And he wants you to come home so he can apologize properly. I have to agree with him. - _SH_  
  
01:55  
so does john. - _SophieL_  
  
01:57  
Good. - _SH_  
  
02:10  
john wants you to know that you are the most important, magnificent, beautiful, precious person in his life. and he loves you. - _SophieL_  
  
02:17  
Bring him home, please. - _SH_  
  
02:30  
in the cab now. meet me at the kerb - _SophieL_  
  
02:31  
Thank you, Sophia. - _SH_

* * *

  
 **Age 29**  
  
06:12  
Bring milk. - _SH_  
  
06:19  
In labor. Get your own fucking milk. - _SophieL_  
  
06:22  
In your own time, then. - _SH_

* * *

**end**   
  



	15. Angels Are Guarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is twenty-nine years old when her daughter is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. Little Sophie and company are my own silly whims.  
>  **Inspired by:** _The Ballyeamon Cradle Song_ a traditional Irish lullaby.  
>  **A/N:** I’ve had a lot of fun writing Little Sophie, my first and only long-term OC, lol! And I hope her misadventures with the Dynamic Duo were just as fun to read! As always, many many many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos’ and comments!!!
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> *** Sophie’s father was named Charles (Bingley, yes, I borrowed him from Ms Austen, lol).  
>  * Beachy Head's chalk cliffs have a reputation for being a popular suicide jump.**  
> 

Sophie is twenty-nine years old when her daughter is born.  
  
Charlotte Amelie Lestrade.  
  
 _Charlotte_ , after Sophie’s Da. _Amelie,_ after Daniel’s paternal grandmother.   
  
A tiny, wrinkled bundle swaddled in pink hospital blankets, blinking slowly at the new world.  
  
Mr Sherlock shakes his curly head in dismay. “ Definitely the marks of a ginger. Between the two of you the poor child doesn’t stand a chance in hell.”    
  
“ Shut up, Sherlock.”  Mr John’s reprimand is quiet, muffled by the broad grin stretching across his face and deepening the creases around his eyes and mouth. He holds Lotte (and Mr Sherlock had all sorts of things to say about the diminutive) close to his chest, gazing down into the dark, sleepy eyes as his partner hovers just behind him, looking over his shoulder. “ She’ll be just as lovely as her mother.” A wink tossed in Sophie’s direction.  
  
“ And twice as stubborn as her father.” Sophie winks back and tosses a flannel at Mr John to quickly catch the stream of spit-up issuing from the infant’s mouth. “ And thrice as messy as Sherlock.”  She’s exhausted, but happy to have visitors who aren’t interested in poking her with needles (the diligent nurses) or asking intrusive questions( Daniel’s mum) or petrified of children(decidedly not-maternal Gemma).  
  
“ The one time, and it was all your fault!” Mr Sherlock huffs, indignant. “ Small children and their germs, ugh.”  He gives a disgusted shudder, moving away from Mr John to claim Sophie’s charts hanging by the bed. Leaning against the wall, casually flipping through the papers, Mr Sherlock pulls a biro from his coat pocket and begins marking her charts; crossing out doctor’s orders and adding to the nursing staff’s notes. “ Sit down, John. Before your leg betrays you.”  
  
Mr John pulls a frown, but doesn’t protest the changes. Or the offhand mentioning of his most recent injury.  More resigned than approving, he carefully lowers himself into the rocker near the window, adjusting his hold on Lotte. Turning his attention back to Sophie.“ Where’s Daniel gotten off to? I thought he was taking a week’s leave.”  
  
“ He’s at the Yard, finishing the paperwork for the Garrideb case.” Mr Sherlock doesn’t look up from the charts as he speaks, scowling at the scribbles there. “ And to show off an undoubtedly exhaustive collection of newborn photos.”  He swoops the pen across the page once more, then pockets it and drops the clipboard onto the small table with the empty food tray and cups of cooling tea. “ As if no one has ever seen a baby before.”  
  
“ You spent a week brandishing pics of your new beehive at anyone with a pulse. And a few who didn’t. ”  Mr John absently admonishes the other man, wiggling his finger into Lotte’s firm grasp. Dark blue eyes, deeply crinkled at the corners, smile up at Sophie. “ Ignore him. He’s stroppy because his animal-bits home delivery service is postponed until you return to the surgery.”  
  
Mr Sherlock snorts through his nose and turns to the large window. He parts the blinds and watches the people passing on the street far below.  
  
Sophie smirks. “ I’m sure I can pop in for a visit and snatch a few canary beaks and rat tails for your potions” She shifts in the hospital bed, pulling a pained face.  It’s not comfortable, no matter how many pillows Daniel brought in before popping out. Giving up, she flops back- grimacing- and misses the epidural. The tablets the nurses gave her postpartum are quite disappointing after the bliss of not feeling anything below her chest.  
  
Mr Sherlock flicks her a glance. A hint of concern in the tightening of his expression that Sophie can’t help but chuckle at because after all these years she can read a few of those tiny tells of his. This one she’s seen quite often, normally directed at Mrs Hudson or Gladstone. It’s brief, a quick once over to assure himself that everything is at it should be and she’s fine and he can once again dismiss her for more interesting thoughts. Like...  
  
“ I once solved a case where a woman poisoned her husband with tainted breast milk. “  
  
Sophie can do nothing but stare. Mr John gapes and stares. Lotte mewls.  
  
Mr Sherlock turns back to his window, gaze following who-knows-what outside. “ Rather boring at the end. Husband was deathly allergic to peanuts and had a nursing fetish. Wife ate a peanut butter sandwich unbeknownst to him and then allowed him to indulge in his suckling fantasies. He died of anaphylactic shock. Detective Inspector Gregson- your father-in-law was merely a sergeant back then- was ready to call it an accident, but  I was certain it was premeditated and almost immediately found two empty peanut butter canisters hidden in the soiled nappy bin. Also, I discovered that she’d emptied all his epi-pens beforehand and that the child was, in fact, not the husband’s, but the-”  
  
A loud, ginormous yawn cracks Sophie’s jaw, a hand rising to cover her mouth. Embarrassed. “ God, I am so sorry about that. “ She rubs her bleary eyes and sits up straighter. “ You were saying? About the bab-”  Another yawn interrupts.  
  
“ The neighbor’s.” Mr Sherlock’s voice is muffled by her fatigue-dulled senses.  
  
Mr John’s voice follows right after.“Sweetheart, you’re knackered. You don’t have to entertain us.”  
  
“No, it’s fine! I’m fine!”  Sophie forces her eyes to widen, to pay attention,  to ward off the heaviness she feels creeping in on her.  She hardly ever gets to see these two anymore, between her own busy life and their mad escapades. And since they bought that little cottage near Eastbourne (and Sophie had all sorts of things to say about Mr Sherlock wanting to retire so near the infamous Beachy Head) Sophie is all too aware of the frequency of their trips to the coast and the slowly dwindling times they spend in town.  She knows 221 Baker Street won’t be occupied for much longer and the thought makes her decidedly uneasy. Almost... afraid.  
  
“ Sophia. Sleep.” Mr Sherlock disturbs her gloomy reverie with his quiet command. He’s no longer looking out the window, but straight at her. Expression irritated and bored and so soothingly normal. ” We won’t disappear the moment you shut your eyes and the nurse will be back round in an hour making sure you can still drink and wee. Use your time wisely.”  
  
Mr John is smiling at her, rocking gently in the chair, tickling Lotte’s chin with his finger. “ What he means is: we’ve got her, Sophie. Sleep while you can.”  
  
“ I... w-well I...” Sophie verbally fumbles, looking from Lotte to Mr John to Mr Sherlock and back to Lotte again.  She nods her head, barely even aware of doing it, and eases back into the pillows. “ Right. Just... just wake me up if she gets hungry. Or starts crying. Or-”  
  
“ Yes, yes! Understood. Now get on with it.”  Mr Sherlock waves his hand at her, dismissive, and returns his attention to the window view.  His eyes light up suddenly. “ Ooh, someone in the cardiac unit isn’t going to make it. The vultures are already descending on the scene.”  
  
“ Not the time, love.”  
  
“ But, John, there’s a mistress! And a... racehorse? Interesting...”  
  
Sophie smiles, lying on the uncomfortable hospital bed, listening to her neighbors bicker quietly about race track scandals and whose turn to wash up after dinner.  Falling asleep as her mind slowly spins an image round and round, picking out little details to keep forever.  
  
Mr John’s hair-completely grey now- turned golden again in the late afternoon sunshine.  
  
Broad, aged hands cupping around Lotte’s tiny figure.  
  
Mr Sherlock’s dark form behind them, looming larger than life in the cramped room.  
  
Miniscule quirk of his mouth as he observes the rocker’s occupants.  
  


* * *

  
  
John watches the woman asleep in the bed and remembers a nervous bride, a confident junior veterinarian, a brash uni student, an insolent teenager, a tender-hearted tween, an embarrassingly observant child.  
  
A clumsy, red-headed, bright eyed, toddler climbing up the steps to 221b to share crumbled biscuits with Gladstone and interrupt Sherlock’s apiology lectures.

  
  
He gently rubs Lotte’s fist with his thumb and makes a mental list of things at home to be baby-proofed before she’s mobile. 

 

* * *

  
  
In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, there is a room- a large cupboard, really- specifically for Things Important to John. In this room is a small soft toy, a pink bunny, that has been stored here for approximately twenty-nine years.  It has moved around, within the room. Sometimes by him. Sometimes on its own.  
  
From the mess of common courtesy on the floor, to the box of various anniversary dates, to the shelf of framed photos. He shoved it to the back, once, into the bin with all the other regrets and failures. But it eventually crawled out and found its way back to the basket near the door with John’s sweaters.  He’d left it there, intent to ignore it, until he was forced to put it back on the proper shelf that had grown rather crowded through the years.  
  
He looks at it now, but doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t touch it.  
  
Merely places another toy bunny- this one a light green (because he’s already broken down the genetics and green eyes are the most likely outcome)-  onto the shelf beside it.  
  
And doesn’t quite shut the door all the way when he leaves. 

* * *

  
  
**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very very much!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos', and comments!!!


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